[Closed] Lost Everything

Find something. Before it's too late.

The capital city of Anaxas and the seat of the government.
User avatar
Rhys Valentin
Posts: 168
Joined: Sun Jul 08, 2018 5:06 pm
Topics: 8
Location: Vienda
Race: Wick
: It's Inspector to you, thanks.
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Post Templates: Post Templates
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Muse
Contact:

Thu Mar 07, 2019 12:50 am

20th of Achtus, 2718
PAINTED LADIES | AFTERNOON
Image
Days crawled by in discomfort and silence, Rhys slowly withdrawing from both himself and everything around him, first simply to ignore the physical pain of the careful process of recovery, some magical, some simply left to time, but also to hide from the real hurt he'd brought to Charity through his choices. The first few days at Drezda's residence were easily spent hardly conscious, bones set, bound, swelling eased, cuts stitched, and concussion stabilized. The stitches in his lip would leave a scar. Perhaps his forehead, too. His ribs and arm required more magical healing, but the process was slow and split up into sessions that would be two weeks apart.

The suspended Sergeant ate when told and moved and washed like a mechanical mockery of himself, he made conversation when talked to and attempted to simply hide behind his injuries as a way to hide the writhing darkness that threatened to consume him from the inside ou and when he was deemed well enough to travel, when they'd surely overstayed their unwanted welcome, he went home.

Well.

Not to the home he knew.

It was obvious there was no safety in his flat in Kingsway Court, not now and perhaps not ever. His delicate pianist had surprised him, perhaps surprised herself, in the fistful of days they hid like frightened hingles in Miss Ecks' house by using her own money and taking her own time to find them somewhere quaint and quiet in the Painted Ladies. In the clocking Dives.

Like a pair of clever tsats.

Had the circumstances been different, it would have been endearing, exhilarating, adorable. It would have been awkward, considering his delicate pianist of a wife was a galdor and he was not, but she'd done it all on her own and Rhys didn't ask questions. He couldn't even help move his entire life somewhere new, only struggle upstairs and curl up in a new bed as if he wanted nothing else.

Voices followed him into the darkness behind his eyelids. Faces. Taunts. Threats. Promises. Disappointments. Anger. Fear. His attackers haunted him, waking him in helplessness. His mistakes whispered to him, Charity's closeness in bed not a comfort when he knew he'd betrayed all of her trust, crushed all his promises.

Bastard.

You fucking bastard.

Idiot.

Charity was an idiot, she is an idiot. She was enamoured with the idea of you, with the escape you offered on her depressing little lot in life.

Failure.

Give my regards to my daughter, Mister Valentin.

His bruised and broken ribs kept him mostly in bed. His arm, slung and immobilized, kept him mostly helpless without assistance. While he had no choice to ask, he had no choice but to need, he just made sure he needed as little as possible. He ate and drank just enough to keep him alive. He washed to be bearable. He hadn't shaved in days.

Rhys was angry—so angry—that it seethed into his tone of voice, quickened his temper, stole his gentleness. He became withdrawn and grumpy, not belligerent so much as quiet and blunt. He'd stared at bruises made by Benjamin's hands and found he had no more words to say, especially when Charity refused to be rid of them like some godsbedamned purposeful reminder of his stupidity. He'd apologized but, as far as he could tell, like the blackened bits of his face and ribs that had begun to turn the ugly colors, the damage had been done and he was helpless to fix it.

He didn't want to talk about things. He didn't want to hear how wrong he had been. He didn't want to hear the mistakes he'd made. He didn't want to be asked how he would make it better. He didn't want to. He just didn't. What did it matter? Could anything even be fixed? He'd broken everything. He'd ruined the only good thing. The one good thing he'd clung to for so much of his life—snuffed out like a candle by his own stupidity.

Any attempt at conversation only led to he was sorry and he was going to bed. In that order. Every damn time. Small talk was possible, but awkward. It was simply weighed down by an unspoken sadness that permeated his entire existence.

He slept. A lot. Houses. Hours. Half a day at a time. More. It was easy—so clocking easy—to blame it on pain. Physical pain, of course. Something hurt. He was tired. Effort was exhausting. He didn't want any opiates in the house for reasons he wasn't about to disclose to Drezda or anyone else in Charity's obvious company and so he'd refused the doctor with vehemence when he'd offered.

Instead, he just dealt with the pain. Poorly.

A week slipped by too quickly. Not quickly enough. He let the sore feelings swell between himself and the one person he loved—the only person in all of Vita he felt he could even trust no matter how much he knew she hated him now. He let the silence between them fester like an untreated wound. Rhys was unwilling to process anything, unwilling to follow the dark trails of his thoughts where he knew they were calling him to go, unwilling to offer peace to something he was afraid to hope in after his ugly mistake. Unable to act, he simply shut down, disappearing into himself instead of turning to Charity to make things right.

Why should he? There was nothing she could want from him—

Now the delicate galdor was stuck with him. With a wick. A nothing. An ersehole.

Where else could she go?

He'd done this. This was all his fault. Every tear. Every bruise. Every bloody smear and broken bone. All of it was his fault.

Rhys could only curl further under the covers, cocooned in a warm darkness that did not reject him, that had not pushed him away but had welcomed him instead. Ten days and he'd become some ghost of himself, unable to summon the will to make the right choices because of the painful weight of his guilt.

Because everyone had been right. All this time. All his life.

He was nothing.

Golden afternoon light, the last light of this particular winter day, filtered through curtains. Jynx stubbornly insisted on sleeping on his feet as if she might have, somehow, still cared about the not-galdor, as if she waited on praise for her daring rescue. He'd not eaten. He'd hardly strung words together in conversation. His arm ached, bones knitting together at their accelerated rate excruciating, but not as full of sharp discomfort as the awareness he'd left Charity alone, that he had yet to really be home since that afternoon on the Eighth.

He'd just left.

Did he want to come back? Did he—

Of course, he had to pee. With great effort, Rhys began to peel away the layers of his hiding place, to sit up (much to his osta's displeasure), to gingerly swing his legs over the edge of the bed, to whine and hiss at the crushing weight of gravity, curling toes of his bare feet against the cold floor, and summoning the elusive will to stand. Shuffling from the bedroom and into the hall toward the admittedly lackluster plumbing of this little house in the Painted Ladies—which was actually rather nice by comparison to what was beyond the neighborhood and two blocks over and was something money could fix for sure—the suspended officer trailed fingers over doors and walls, moving slowly and ignoring the rumble of his stomach as it announced its hunger.

Clock it all. One thing at a time.
Mmmyes. U know me.Show
Last edited by Rhys Valentin on Mon Mar 25, 2019 11:35 am, edited 1 time in total. word count: 1366

User avatar
Charity Darthe
Posts: 95
Joined: Mon Jul 09, 2018 5:41 pm
Topics: 1
Race: Galdor
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Post Templates: Post Templates
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Contact:

Thu Mar 07, 2019 9:01 pm

20th Achtus, 2718
PAINTED LADIES| AFTERNOON
Image
It wasn’t much, but it was something. It was relatively safe, and it was theirs.

That’s what Charity had convinced herself as she handed over the concords withdrawn from her personal bank account for the unloved house in the Painted Ladies. It was a two story place, with a basement, once painted some shade of blue though now faded into more of a drab peeling grey, wooden weatherboarding cracked and warped by the weather in some places. Inside, the walls were papered with a beige-brown floral pattern of some kind, and whilst not a thing of beauty it held the bones of promise. Passing through the small foyer would take one into the ground floor hall, that presented a set of stairs against the right wall leading up to the main bedroom, guest bedroom, bathroom and a small study. On the other side of the stairs, they led down to the dining room, kitchen and food storage. On the ground floor there were two parlours, though the smaller one at the rear had been turned into a library at some time in the past. The woodwork inside the house was scratched, varnished peeling and broken away, needing the touch of carpentry and love. Glass panelled shelving doors in the library sat on rusted hinges, but the panels themselves whilst cloudy with dirt and age, were sound. The wood floors were worn, unpolished and rough, and the roof leaked if the rain was heavy enough. Windows were sound, though there were very few that slid open anymore, thanks to age and warping of wood. The curtains in the parlour and library were threadbare, some so badly rotted by age that Charity had discarded them. In the bedrooms, the main room at least they were sound, each room containing a bed and a built in wardrobe. Fireplaces kept the two bedrooms, two parlours and dining room warm, whilst in the kitchen it was where the stove was housed.

It was no mansion, and required more work than the young galdor could care to admit, but the plumbing was suitable and it was safe. For now.

The furniture had mostly come with the home, and so was of the same condition as the property. Dusty, age worn tables and chairs. Rusted lighting fixtures and door handles. A chipped porcelain tub and sink. An actual lavatory too, stained but usable. The bed frames had been acceptable, but Charity had forked out a little more coin for new mattresses and linens. There was no way she could sleep on the ones from Rhys’ home again, refusing to even entertain the idea. Of all the things that could have been found there, the woman was surprised to stumble upon the dusty and very unloved baby grand piano in the larger parlour. Everything else was missing, there were no chairs or tables, the rug underfoot worn almost through to the wood beneath and there in the middle was the black beast of a thing, its keys yellowing with age and strings strained and untuned.

The days at Drezda’s had been somewhat bareable, only because Charity had found herself out of the house more than in it. Realistically, she should have been perched by Rhys’ bedside every minute of every house, but they didn’t have the luxury of sitting around. Whilst the Hoxian had been a gods-send for them both, it was her home and they were only temporarily welcome. Once she was absolutely sure the man was going to survive, once he had fallen into the first deep healing sleep after the traumatic events of the eighth, the still fresh Valentin had taken the first step in making sure they would have somewhere to live. Right now, Rhys’ home was a death trap, there was no returning to the premises. The young woman had stripped the brunette from her hair, knowing full well now that disguises were useless, and frankly no longer required. If her father wanted to find her, she would welcome it, if only so she could shove a hairpin through his eye.

The bank had been easy enough to navigate, requiring signatures and such, but bizarrely enough the act of withdrawing the concords had been sort of liberating. A young woman, with her own money and her own mind. Charity focused on everything they needed to do, rather than on the horrors that laughed at the frayed edges of her sanity. If she stopped doing things, then she would think. If she thought, she would fall apart. Something inside was close to snapping, she could feel it, and being busy was keeping it together.

She found the house, and had visited Rhys to discuss the place, only to be confronted with an air of strangeness between them. He was hurt, healing, but there was something else there. A wall between them that hadn’t been there before, and not just of his own doing. Charity knew she shared it too, her field withdrawn from his glamour, unwilling to find comfort in the shared Perceptive mona that lived there. Instead of discussing the home, the young galdor had simply acted, buying the place and organising with Jsara to bring their personal belongings to the home. Clothing, important trinkets, Jynx.

Jynx, her unlikely hero.

The osta was her companion as the days crept on, her small guardian as she moved around the new home, dusting and cleaning as best she knew how with Jsara’s help. The one eyed creature had come off unharmed in the fight with Benjamin, but he had become overprotective, wary of strangers. Charity welcomed it however, sitting in the oversized worn armchair of the study, legs tucked under herself and furry rescuer in her lap whilst they waited for Rhys’ arrival. It was that day, from all the others that blended together, that the platinum galdor had wept. Truly wept. She sobbed for herself, for Rhys, for the aching in her chest that wouldn’t subside. She had cried till there was just nothing left to give, staring into nothingness whilst her mind recalled vividly every little moment of the eighth.

They moved in together, without fanfare, the suspended Seventen taking himself directly to bed without so much as a greeting. He was angry, at her or at himself the blonde wasn’t entirely sure anymore. The bruises on her neck and thighs, she had refused healing for. Not in some cruel reminder for the man, but as a reminder for herself. She stared in the tarnished mirror of the ugly bathroom, brushing fingertips over the yellow and green marks, the rage in her field palatable. They were reminders of her weakness, and her failings as a wife. As a galdor. Benjamin had nearly taken her dignity in the sheets of her own marital bed.

She wouldn’t let it happen again.

The rage however, didn’t end with Ben. Or Diaxio. Or Damen. Though he didn’t deserve it, not really, Charity was angry at Rhys. She understood his frame of mind that day, the burning fury that he had felt assuming that Benjamin had indeed completed the act he had set out to do, but to just walk away and leave her there on the floor…the petite creature felt the same hollow ache she had when Damen had torn them apart so long ago. He’d left her there alone to pick up the shattered pieces herself, and nearly got himself killed. What if he’d died, what then? She’d have been alone. Again. The thought made her sick, physically ill. She would have lost him again, and this time forever.

Foolish man.

He barely ate, barely spoke, and when he did it was the same thing. I’m sorry, I’m going to bed. Charity didn’t want his apologies anymore, she wanted to talk, but the broken wick wouldn’t have it. She wanted to pursue him with her fury and her frustration and her desperate need to talk, but his coldness kept her at bay.

She’d lost him, even if they were together, she was alone again.

The fact he refused meditations in the home, because of her stirred something in the pale creature. It stung, viciously, to be so untrusted. She hadn’t used for seasons now, it was the whole clocking reason the ring of bastards had set them up. A trap, for her and for Rhys. And yet somehow, Rhys had fiercely demanded no opiates for his pain, pushing Charity further away with his self-pity. They slept together, in silence, miles apart though in the same bed. There was no contact, no sharing of pain or opening up. No communication. The blonde had trouble sleeping, afraid of the darkness and the things that dragged from her memories, waking with a start from vivid nightmarish recounts. She woke in the early hours of the morning, leaving the man alone in the bed to spend her time downstairs in the library. Her investigations had found grimores, full of spells that the blonde had forgotten. Reading them inspired her, lit a fire within that was fueled by the rage that simmered endlessly. A rage she was somewhat afraid of. A rage that was too much like her fathers.

Bright, flaring and hot.

As the golden rays of the afternoon winter sun broke through the front windows of the parlour, Charity sat at the piano. She’d had it lovingly serviced earlier that day, the strings tuned and replaced where needed, the varnish cleaned and redone where needed. Polished and shining as though new, the beautiful old instrument begged for love. It had been seasons since she played, and yet, it was like riding a bike. Foot on the suppression peddle to be sure she didn’t disturb the hollow man sleeping upstairs, the Valentin let her fingers dance across the keys in a gentle expression of her heart, violet eyes following her hands over the ivories. She wanted to go back in time, back twelve days prior. Back twenty days prior. Back to Rhys’ birthday, when they had been happy and in love.

Breaking into the crescendo of her song, Charity stopped suddenly when she heard a creak from above her. Footsteps, slow and careful on the floorboards. Standing from the instrument, the young woman moved to the stairs, climbing them to pause at the landing just as Rhys moved towards the bathroom. She hesitated, a hand resting on the wall, the other against the flat of her stomach as butterflies rustled within. How had they become so distant in such a short time, how had she lost him?

“You’re up.” The galdor said softly, her pale locks loose, dressed in a white loose day dress of soft silk and lace. Her field was withdrawn, concern and aching fluttering at its dampened edges. Pushing back the awkwardness that hung in the air, the blonde moved forward to help him.

“Here, I can help.”

Music and Housing and Dresses - Oh MY!
word count: 1876
User avatar
Rhys Valentin
Posts: 168
Joined: Sun Jul 08, 2018 5:06 pm
Topics: 8
Location: Vienda
Race: Wick
: It's Inspector to you, thanks.
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Post Templates: Post Templates
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Muse
Contact:

Thu Mar 07, 2019 11:41 pm

20th of Achtus, 2718
PAINTED LADIES | AFTERNOON
Rhys had hardly taken the time to look at the narrow two-story house with a basement in the Painted Ladies with a little garden and faded paint and peeling wallpaper. He'd seen the dingy plumbing stained with rust and age, the dirty fireplace in desperate need of cleaning, the deteriorating curtains, and the aging furniture. He'd caught a glimpse of a dilapidated piano. He'd hardly taken the time to make decisions, muttering his agreement from behind stitches and yellowing bruises that, yes, of course replacing some things were necessary. Keeping his flat in Kingsway looking as unsuspicious as possible was important in his mind, and taking too many things, taking too much furniture or being too obvious would have simply led everyone he wasn't in any condition to fight off to the Dives.

The house was perhaps as broken down on the outside as Rhys felt on the inside. Well-built on a strong foundation, nestled between similar houses, everything that was wrong with this old place was fixable—new paint, a bit of carpentry, scrubbing—with effort. At least the house was real. At least the house was worth the effort. The foundations the young Valentin believed he'd been built on were a lie. He wasn't worth anything.

Once able to move, once coherent and conscious enough to navigate coordinated movements of his body despite the pain that lingered—that would linger for probably well into Ophus, he was told—they'd gratefully took their leave of Drezda. Somewhere inside, though he felt no need to express it out loud, he owed the Hoxian a hefty debt for not only his own life but for Charity's safety. A debt he was aware he'd never be able to really pay. A debt he didn't expect her to come calling for anytime soon after the mess they'd made, anyway.

The mess he'd made.

Barely in the threshold of this home she'd taken the initiative in and he knew she wanted something—more apologies? A thank you?

No. A conversation.

Gods, he just couldn't do it.

The first few days of hiding had been easy. Despite the first phase of magical healing, minor as it had been, the pain of everything was still so intense—his heart aching even more than his broken bones.

Honestly, though? Rhys hadn't meant to let the silence drag on this long. A few days. Not thinking. But then? How did he go back? How did he reach for her when he hadn't before? How did he start talking when he had nothing right to say? How did he fix things that had been tarnished and ruined so fast? So, he'd let another day slip by. And another. Hiding. Festering. Aching. It got easier only because fear and hurt grew more tangible.

Fingertips brushed over peeling wallpaper and near the washroom door, the tall blond leaned against his palm, out of breath, dizzy because there was no mediator between himself and the pain. He paused because the piano music had stopped, a strange sensation of panic burning in his lungs at the unavoidable sound of creaking wood, of his delicate galdor of a wife, stupid lovely in a housedress that looked the way summer felt coming up the stairs. Rhys leaned there, unmoving, blue eyes wide because he'd made so much out of not looking at her, really avoiding her, that here he was really looking at Charity—Charity Valentin—for the first time in a week.

The edges of his eyes stung and whispers of memories writhed through the back of his mind, stealing whatever breath was left, burning in his lungs. No.

He'd made a mistake.

He'd been making mistakes.

He needed to stop.

They needed to stop.

"Yes, but—wait—I—" Taking a step away from the wall, Rhys stuttered and paused, tongue toying with stitches in his lower lip he knew he should leave alone, but instead of shying away, it was with visible reluctance that he shuffled in the petite blonde's direction, adjusting his left arm slung against his chest before his right hand trailed away from his own bare chest toward her shoulder, hovering. Hesitant, his expression softening, faltering, fingers brushing down her arm to hold her hand and lean, to nudge them back on his slow walk toward the washroom,

"—you don't need to help with the important bits. Getting there, though. Yes. Please." Flicker of a smirk—almost a smile—and he breathed shakily, an obvious nervousness in the weaker, frazzled state of his glamour. Releasing her to hobble over tiles with dirty grout, he caught a glance of his own face in the mirror, almost immediately looking away again from something haggard and marred by fading bruises, scruffy and sallow, something just distant and strange enough to feel like someone else in his reflection.

So much cleaning to be done as he stared down at the stain of years on porcelain, one-handedly making a valiant effort to prove his capabilities of independence. Ah, see, this was totally doable, even relieving oneself with an audience, but too much confidence there at the end as if he at all was in a position to show off (he wasn't), and—

"Shit."

—the rustle of fabric slipping from precarious balance on narrow hips beyond his very limited reach, losing his grip on trousers wrinkled from too long hiding in bed only to helplessly watch them slide toward his ankles.

Rhys smirked, eyes fluttering for a moment because there was no way in all of Vita he could bend his broken body anywhere close to his godsbedamned toes.

Then, he chuckled. Just a breathless noise at first. Chagrined. Awkward. Instead of the sound being cut short, however, it turned into a laugh, louder and genuine. Not at all sarcastic. Just stupid. Tilting his head in Charity's direction, his smile lingered,

"I can't—" Leaning a bare back marred by fading purples and sickening greens against chilled tile, he breathed with effort, "—I need you to—"

His good hand waved, fingers wiggled with obvious direction, though his eyes burned fiercely and something inside of his chest felt on fire and it wasn't with embarrassment. The tall blond watched her should his delicate pianist move to assist him, breath hitching in her proximity, so many words rising to the surface of his every thought as if dredged up from some silty sea bottom by his amusement.

The sound of humor, the laughter, was like a counterspell. It unraveled despair. It shone brightly against darkness.

Rhys blinked.

Stitches caught between his front teeth for a moment before he whispered, the inflection and, more importantly, the meaning of his quiet words in the deeper tones of his hushed voice far different than what he'd just said despite being the same exact sounds,

"I need you, too."

His good hand moved with the honest sentiment, spoken out loud after a silence too long, brushing hair that was blonde again from a face that was as lovely as it was weary, as patient as it was hurting, "Now. Then—I—"

Godsdamnit.

"You needed me then and I didn't—I wasn't—" He wheezed, giving into the sudden overwhelming need for tears, chest aching with all of the effort. Pressing his back against the wall harder, he curled his free hand upward and dug a palm into his undamaged eyesocket, wiping away moisture before thumbing the other side where his skull had been broken in two places, hissing between grit teeth. Tears fell anyway, helplessly consumed by the fires sparked by such unexpected humor,

"You need me now. And I just—I left—and I—I haven't been home."
word count: 1354
User avatar
Charity Darthe
Posts: 95
Joined: Mon Jul 09, 2018 5:41 pm
Topics: 1
Race: Galdor
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Post Templates: Post Templates
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Contact:

Fri Mar 08, 2019 2:16 am

20th Achtus, 2718
PAINTED LADIES| AFTERNOON
Image
He looked at her, with those wide clear blue eyes that had captured her attention like a moth to the flame so many years ago, staring as if she was an apparition come to strike him down. She heard him gather his breath for words, closing her ears to any protests he might have planned, very ready to firmly offer assistance whether he wanted her near or not. There was a brief rebuke, a vocal request to wait, as though he was about to say he could do without her, but then he moved to come closer and place a hand on her shoulder. Charity looked down at the hand as it trailed from her shoulder, down her arm and caught her fingers within his.

Tears burned, she could feel them welling. Had it really been so long without contact that the small gesture felt so huge?

Blinking them away, the blonde kept her eyes on the worn path before them, caprising the nervous unstable flutter of his glamour even against her field tucked so carefully away. Her violet gaze lifted to his face at the weak joke, seeing the barest hint of the man she loved coming to the surface like he was coming up for air, not quite able to bring her own smile forth.

“Of course.” She said quietly, releasing his hand reluctantly as they entered the neglected bathroom. Pausing close by, should he need her, Charity waited patiently in aching silence glancing up sharply at the curse.

“Are you—oh!” Her eyes followed the offending garment as it petulantly escaped his solo handed effort to pool at his feet. She hesitated, unsure how to react. If she helped, would he be angry that she belittled his independence? If she did nothing, would he be mad that she was so useless? The petite blonde wavered indecisively and then…

He chuckled.

Not just a little humorous thing but a proper laugh, and Charity couldn’t avoid its contagiousness, her sombre face breaking into a small smile and a giggle. Something about the laughter was like a break in the dark angry clouds of a winter storm to let a single ray of sun warm the land below. It chased away the frost covering hearts and ice locking up words, bringing back some small semblance of normality. Rhys looked at her, and he smiled, and the galdor couldn’t help but smile back, heart almost bursting with the love that still burned there under hurt and barriers made of their own doing.

“I—sure.” She said with another giggle at the absurdity of the moment, moving forward quickly to assist the man, pulling the pants up to rest on still bruised skin, her smile fading as she stood before him so close where they had been so far for so long. Her pulse thrummed in her veins as she lifted violet eyes to meet his sincere gaze, hearing the same words again with a different tone. A different meaning. The pianist felt the tears that were always there, just waiting in the background, spring to her eyes again with a soft sighed exhale as though someone had punched the breath from her chest.

“Rhys—” Charity breathed, closing her eyes briefly as he stroked the hair from her face, opening them again to take in the familiar bruises and stitches that adorned his features. Each one was a painful stab through her heart, a syllable in the message that her father had organised for them. A warning of things that could and would happen, should they continue to fight against the underworld that was slowly clawing its way to the surface.

The taller man leaned away from her, to press bare skin against the cool unclean tiles of the room, and Charity couldn’t stop the surge of anger in her field at his unspoken apologies. At his tears.

“It wasn’t—you didn’t—” She began, swallowing against the lump in her throat, taking a ragged breath against the emotions swelling in her chest. Shifting quickly, the blonde creature reached for his good hand as he lowered it, grasping it in both hands and holding it tightly. Her eyes searched his, finally now that he would look at her she wanted him to see her and to hear her.

“Stop!” The petite woman said suddenly, her voice thick and words sharp. Brow furrowing, tears spilling where she so bitterly wanted them to hold, Charity pressed his hand to her cheek with a deep breath and a desperate kiss to his palm.

“I did need you.” She said with a quiet sob, angrily pushing the desire to cry like a broken damsel far away with another step closer, bringing her hands up to hold his face with a tender carefulness.

“I needed to talk to you, to hold you. To be held. I needed you to cry with me, and be outraged with me. I needed you to help me with this house and these thoughts and feelings and…and…” Catching herself with a breathless sound, Charity looked down, eyes closing as she found some sense of centre, taking another deep breath before looking up at him again.

“But you needed me too Rhys, and I didn’t fight hard enough. I was angry at you, for leaving me, for being so stupid, but that wasn’t fair. It’s not fair. You had every reason, every right to do what you did and I know in my heart I would have done the same. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t try harder, that I let this happen. I’m sorry I couldn’t be the wife you needed, when the whole world fell apart. I’m sorry.” She couldn’t stop the quiet weeping that broke through her impassioned words, words that she had needed to say days and days ago. Words that had settled heavily in dark corners and had festered on their own.

“I’ve missed you so much. I’ve missed your smiles, and your laughter. I’ve missed your anger and your passion. There’s so much in my head, so much rage, so much pain, and it’s consuming me inside.” The galdor released his face, gesturing with both hands at her chest, tapping hard on her sternum to emphasise the point.

“Home? There hasn’t been a home since you’ve been gone. There’s just a shell of a house that is cold and empty and dark. I tried to keep us safe, bought us this decrepid husk in the the worst part of town. I tried to do it all Rhys but I don’t know how. I didn’t know what else to do without you.” Reaching for his hand again, Charity held it tightly and shook her head.

“I thought you were dead Rhys. I thought you were dead.” The word was little more than a whisper, too close to home and too raw to speak loudly.

word count: 1200
User avatar
Rhys Valentin
Posts: 168
Joined: Sun Jul 08, 2018 5:06 pm
Topics: 8
Location: Vienda
Race: Wick
: It's Inspector to you, thanks.
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Post Templates: Post Templates
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Muse
Contact:

Fri Mar 08, 2019 4:02 pm

20th of Achtus, 2718
PAINTED LADIES | AFTERNOON
Charity smiled back at him, her hesitant giggle reminiscent of spring flowers, pushing up from Bethas' last snow to seek the sun. It felt good. It felt right, and Rhys ignored the surge of fear and self-doubt that attempted to crawl out from the back of his mind, standing there a still-broken mess while watching the petite blonde help him dress because he couldn't dress himself. Her bright smile cut through the layers of unnecessary resentment between them, but it was still sharp, still painful.

She looked at him with tears in her violet gaze and when she said his name, it was all he could do not to wince, not to shrink away from the raging waters he knew must have churned within her. He leaned away in instinctual assumption of some unwelcome outburst in his direction, their proximity and his physical limitations not allowing him a ready escape from the tangible sensation of anger in her stronger field.

He deserved it. He did. This much he knew, and he'd done his best to avoid it, to keep her at bay just a little longer.

"I did—I was wrong, and—"

Anticipation churned his stomach, shortness of breath making everything that much more difficult to deal with, and he lacked the strength to hold his own tears back. Charity grasped his hand, both of hers warm and fierce in their grip, and he flinched at her hissed request for him to stop talking, breath hitching in a half-stifled sob in echo of her own as she placed his hand up to her wet cheek and pressed her lips to his palm.

Rhys leaned a little heavily into what was probably meant to a gentle cradling of his face, his now-free hand curling fingers into the white fabric of her dress, unsteady and unbalanced. It was difficult to hold her gaze at her words, his fair eyelashes fluttering heavily, thick and made slow by tears, holding himself back from wrenching away like the wounded animal he was, unsure if he wanted these words here. These words now.

If not, then when?

He exhaled a ragged breath, quipped short by pain, closing his eyes at her apology, scrunching his bruised face tightly though it stung to do so, the tug of stitches and dull ache of bruises objecting to his expression of internal suffering with a very fresh surge of pain. He wept into her hands, wavering on his feet when he was forced to gasp for air and steady himself as Charity slid her fingers away, pointing at herself in passionate, angry emphasis,

"I missed you, too. I made a mistake to say nothing. To do nothing. I shouldn't have just—" The not-galdor whispered as if it was an echo of agreement, as if meant to reveal how his feelings mirrored her own. He'd been consumed—was perhaps still—with a helpless, impotent rage. He had been powerless to keep her safe from the addiction that wormed its way into her life, he had been unable to keep her safe from her own father, from Diaxio, from Benjamin—gods, he'd never wanted to step outside the confines of his own oaths and duties in his career for the Seventen in the way he did now. He'd never felt the seething urge to snuff out the life of someone in the same way that thinking that galdor's name in his own head made him feel so strongly.

He needed to sit down.

"I snapped. Do you see what letting that rage consume you does? Look at me—" Free hand dragged over his face with a hiss, palm perhaps a little rough over his bruised chest and ribs, inhaling with a whimper and another sob before he was forced to do more than just hold her hand, entwining their fingers needfully and slumping far more heavily against the wall, leaning his head back to stare at the stained, peeling ceiling, "I should never have left you. He knew—they knew—what would push me over the edge and it worked. I'm stupid and just like them and—I've said I'm sorry too much but not enough. I told you what I thought, I told you what Ben—what Tolsby said—and I—I want to kill him. I want to quit, to step down, to disappear and just—"

He took a few deep, painful breaths, interrupted by his now impossible to stop weeping, and his entire bruised, lanky frame expressing the outpouring of his pent-up emotions. This kind of honesty crushed him, ground against his broken bones, dug for the marrow of his existence. He'd put his whole life into upholding a legal system that had betrayed him, that had nearly killed him, and that had stolen so much from the woman he loved,

"—I want to destroy everything. No due process. No arrests. Real justice. Not chroveshit and lies."

Eyelids closed heavily, shoulders sagging while he ignored the protest of his whole body to stay upright, weakened as he was,

"You shouldn't be here. In the fucking dives. A nice galdor—" It was a growl. A groan of resignation. An admission of what he wasn't, what he couldn't be. There was a smirk, a drawn-out tsk through grit teeth, and Rhys brought his bleary blue eyed gaze back to her face, "—oh, this is honestly the best part of town. The Painted Ladies are safe, and all this place needs is—gods—just a bit of work." The flicker of humor, desperately needed, persistent lightness he summoned from the sore depths of his entire being, "You deserve better, though. I can't keep you safe—I couldn't—I—"

Charity's whisper cut him short and his words died against the back of his teeth instead, tongue pressed there, lips tightening into another expression of pain, the tug of stitches purposeful. He swallowed hard and searched her face, aware that he'd been left close to death. So close. But so far away.

Would it have really mattered? Would it have been better?

Could she have found someone, some galdor, who loved her and could protect her—

"No." Rhys said out loud, firmly both to himself and in denial that anyone had planned to actually kill him on purpose. If he'd died as a result of their injuries, it would have been completely accidental. Damen had wanted to warn him, but it had gone too far. Gingerly, he leaned away from the wall, dizzy and tired already in his hunger and injury. Bringing their hands up to his sore chest, pressing hers over his heart, he met her gaze with all the sincerity he could find, "I didn't die. I'm not dead. Maybe—maybe for a moment I thought I would be better if—but, no. This is better—you and I. Together. I—"

He leaned precariously, pressing lips to Charity's forehead, to her tear-stained cheek, to her lips with a broken sigh, whispering against them, "—listen, I need to sit down, though. I am—this is—"

The tall blond whined, leaning away with reluctance and nudging them out of the bathroom, hopefully back toward bed. He'd rather go downstairs and find something to eat, but all this standing had made the thought of such things terrifying. It was too far. He wasn't ready. He needed to rest again, short of breath, ribs aching, "—this is too much at once."

If she'd let him shuffle them back down the hall, grimacing and huffing, Rhys would greedily make his way back to bed and hungrily attempt to drag her with him, uncaring of his own discomfort in a desperate attempt to find some comfortable position to hold her. His stomach grumbled but he ignored that, too, just wanting to take the moment he should have taken days ago, squeezing the delicate pianist as indulgently as possible given all of his limitations. Rhys sought to disappear, probably with more tears but mostly with just an inescapable closeness,

"I love you. We have both made mistakes here, but we are both very much alive. Which means we can fix all these things, right? This house. This mess. Each other."
Last edited by Rhys Valentin on Mon Mar 25, 2019 11:19 am, edited 1 time in total. word count: 1440
User avatar
Charity Darthe
Posts: 95
Joined: Mon Jul 09, 2018 5:41 pm
Topics: 1
Race: Galdor
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Post Templates: Post Templates
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Contact:

Sat Mar 09, 2019 5:45 pm

20th Achtus, 2718
PAINTED LADIES| AFTERNOON
Image
Charity’s field flared at the mention of the man who had broken into their home, attacked her in their bed and then helped to nearly kill her husband, stomach churning at his name from Rhys’ lips. His hands had left their marks, fading now, but still so clearly a reminder of what atrocities he had tried to commit. The blonde knew that Jynx was the only reason he didn’t get to finish what he’d really come to start, and that made her sick. Why? Why would anyone want to…

She winced, brow drawing as too many images boiled to the surface, pushing them away with a hard and desperate shove.

“I know.” The delicate pianist said softly in response to his vehement admission he wanted to lash back at those who had all but destroyed them. She didn’t argue the fact, or try and talk reason into him, she didn’t agree or disagree. She just acknowledged. The blonde was not in a position to try and be the smart one, to stop his train of thought, for currently she would encourage it. She would help it. And that thought alone terrified her.

What had they become, because of her father? And Xi? And Ben?

Her last words seemed to hang in the air, like ghosts waiting to feed on their souls should they make a misstep. Charity saw the pain on his face, emotionally and physically, searching his features for a moment. She had thought he was dead, and it had broken her. That moment, moving down the stairs, that brief pocket of time where she had thought Drezda was part of it, Charity was absolutely sure he was dead and it had killed her too. She had welcomed the end, her fragile hold on sanity unable to bear the thought of carrying on without him. There, on the stairs, she had been more than ready to run to Damen’s arms and welcome his punishment, to encourage his cruelty if it meant he would steal the breath from her lungs.

She had been ready to die too.

His forceful no brought her back to the present, watching the taller man press her hand to his chest under hers, meeting his crystalline gaze with a shaky catch of her breath.

“Gods no, it wouldn’t be better. Please don’t ever think it would be better. I couldn’t go on without you.” Charity spoke softly, closing her eyes as he kissed her, tears rolling down alabaster cheeks. Opening them again, she nodded, as though only just realizing they had been standing in the grime stained bathroom confessing their deepest most painful words.

“Yes, By the Lady, yes of course. Here.” The blonde would support him as best she could as they made their careful way back down the hall to the main bedroom, helping him into the bed with all intentions of taking a seat on the floor beside him, instead finding herself dragged into the new linens as though the wick couldn’t bare to let her go now they had finally connected again. Charity would not protest, gingerly tucking herself into his arms, afraid of making sore things hurt more than they already did. Huddling into the warmth of his embrace, she sighed softly, indulgently relishing in the moment. Gods, she had missed him so much, and to be held tightly, it was like coming home.

He was her home.

Her ear on his chest, the Valetin could hear his heartbeat strong in his chest and his breathing steady. It reminded her of how unsteady and ragged it had been in the carriage, Alioe she never wanted to hear a sound like that again. Rhys spoke, the sounds rumbling within his chest and reverberating in the air quietly. Charity closed her eyes, letting all her senses welcome him, her field finding its way into his glamour with a tentative sort of merge, as though not entirely sure it was right yet to be so close and yet relishing in the curious familiarity they had always shared.

“I love you too.” Charity said softly, letting her legs tangle carefully with his, pale skirt as disregarded as the bedsheets.

“We can try, at least. I know that I want to try.” The blonde admitted to her husband, afraid to whole heartedly claim that yes, everything could be fixed. The house, sure. It would be an interesting learning curve for them both, and maybe a very welcome distraction. The mess? That was like asking if they could cast an Everspell on their own. It was probably possible, but by the Circle it was hard and felt so very unachievable. But there was hope, it was small and nearly drowned out by hurt and near insanity, but it was there.

Each other?

“All we have is each other Rhys, there’s nothing that needs fixing there. I know in my heart that if the world were to end tomorrow. If Damen or Xi or fucking Benjamin were to burst through that door now and set fire to this place, I would know in my very soul that you and I, we aren’t broken. Not us. Not this.” Drawing back so she could look at him, Charity offered a small smile.

“Rhys and Charity Valentin. Forever and always. No one, nothing is going to take that away from us again. Nothing.”

word count: 934
User avatar
Rhys Valentin
Posts: 168
Joined: Sun Jul 08, 2018 5:06 pm
Topics: 8
Location: Vienda
Race: Wick
: It's Inspector to you, thanks.
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Post Templates: Post Templates
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Muse
Contact:

Mon Mar 25, 2019 12:42 pm

20th of Achtus, 2718
PAINTED LADIES | AFTERNOON
She didn't speak up against his admission, didn't counsel him to consider less violent reactions, didn't discourage the fiery anger that writhed in the broken cavity of his chest. She felt it, too. It had festered for too long in both of their lives and Achtus had simply set it all ablaze. They both knew that there was no sense in trusting the proper Law to handle everything properly—Rhys didn't even know if he'd ever be able to trust his own Seventen peers again, adding their green-uniformed numbers to the host of connections Charity had discovered never had her best interests in mind all while lying that they were her friends.

This was it—they were all each other had—and if they wanted justice served, they'd have to do it themselves.

Right?

He couldn't think straight. He'd spent too much time thinking about it already.

She helped him stagger out of the bathroom and down the hall while he dragged one hand over peeling wallpaper and did his best not to lean too heavily on the delicate pianist for support, sucking in a sharp breath through clenched teeth. Gods, everything still hurt, and while he was due another visit from the physician soon enough, another uncomfortable course of magical realigning of bones and another request for mona-accelerated cell growth that surely wasn't cheap but certainly wasn't unwelcome, either.

The bed was far more welcoming in this moment than it had been for days with sun spilling through the drawn curtains, and Rhys whined in pain that he chose to completely disregard in reaching for Charity, unwilling to keep her distant now that they'd broken their resentful silence. Carefully arranging his slung arm and hissing through grit teeth to find a relatively comfortable position in comparison to the searing pressure that standing put on his lungs and ribs, the injured not-galdor couldn't help the sob of gratitude that escaped his lips once his lovely, forgiving wife settled against him.

Closing his eyes at the far more welcome than expected mingling of their fields and tangling of their bodies, his teeth found the stiff tightness of stitches in his lower lip to worry at while Charity spoke of merely trying. He huffed a wheeze, tilting his head to meet her violet gaze, tears hot and voice wavering,

"We're not broken?"

Did she really mean that? There was genuine doubt in his voice, a clear reminder that he was burdened by so much guilt over his choices—not the results; he'd deserved those—and a very vulnerable revealing that he'd nursed the fear of having destroyed the one thing that had meant everything to him for more of his life he could remember—their relationship, "I don't want to be the one responsible for tearing us apart, Charity. I don't want to lose us in the darkness of fear and anger. I don't want—"

The young Valentin ignored the renewed rumbling of his empty stomach, unable to hide the sound and aware he'd hardly wanted to eat in days, smirking in chagrin instead. He considered moving again, but the very thought of stairs was still horrifying,

"—I don't want to lose who we are in this, you and I, for even if we have each other, if this changes us, either one of us, if this makes us more like them, then there is no victory over their wrongs, no justice. I—I don't want to become a beast in order to catch other beasts, but I also can't see going about things the way we've been told is right any more in order to put an end to all of this. A real end."

He sighed, good arm shifting against her as he leaned to press lips to her pale hair, "Like this house, it's going to be a lot of fucking dirty work, but it has to be done, Charity. Someone has to do it or no one will. I can't—I can't go back to wearing that uniform and know things aren't going to change. I don't want to just try to do something. I want to get it done. We have to—"

Rhys groaned instead of finishing his vehement words of purpose, letting his blue eyes wander upward to the ceiling, water stains and peeling paint and gods only knew what else. The Painted Ladies were one of the better neighborhoods, but here they were, living in the godsbedamned Dives. His eyes drifted shut again for several quiet moments, breath ragged, anger writhing between everything that hurt as if attempting to claw its way out of the cracks in his bones,

"—damn it." The lanky blond whispered distractedly, unable and unwilling to continue to ignore the hunger gnawing at him: his primary needs threatened to rebel against the higher forms of thought he was attempting and his body did not care at all about the condition of his heart while he wrestled so fervently with it, "Do you think you can get me down the stairs?"
word count: 916
User avatar
Charity Darthe
Posts: 95
Joined: Mon Jul 09, 2018 5:41 pm
Topics: 1
Race: Galdor
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Post Templates: Post Templates
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Contact:

Tue Mar 26, 2019 8:49 am

20th Achtus, 2718
PAINTED LADIES| AFTERNOON
Image
“No Rhys. We’re not.” She whispered, stroking the bruised healing face before her, shaking her head a little as his heartfelt admissions.

“You won’t. You haven’t. You—” Her violet gaze, dropped to the smirk, brushing a feather-light finger over the stitches on his lip and swallowing hard. She couldn’t promise they weren’t in danger of becoming beasts themselves to catch beasts. The marred skin on her neck and thighs, the silvery pink scar on her ribs, all of it reminded her of the hatred that burned brightly under her fear and shame and hurt. Ben and Xi and her father, they had all hurt her. They had all come after her, and she’d been a fragile brittle piece of glass, shattered by their woeful hands. It had been so hard, but Rhys had picked all her pieces up and brought them back together. Even after so many years, he’d found her and healed her cracks. Everything had come alright even when it wasn’t alright.

But then, they’d hurt him. They went after him.

Something about that had done something within the blonde. Like a piano string warping in the change of seasons and snapping under the tension, Charity had lost her fear and her aching sadness over them. It had been replaced with something else, something familiar and burning.

Rage.

The galdor pressed her lips together, listening carefully without speaking, looking up at his eyes again at the groan and frowning.

“Right now, what we have to do, is to get you better. Everything else we will…we will figure out. The house and the…them. Everything.” Slipping from her place in his arms, Charity stood up, reaching carefully for the man to assist him gently from the bed and trying her best to support the much taller wick. It was impossible to stop a small sound of struggle escaping her, before she stopped them just past the doorway.

“Hold on. Hold on a second.” The pale creature said with a sigh, resting her free arm against the wall. Standing in the peeling and decrepit hallway, the galdor drew together her field and took a deep breath in and slowly out. The monite that came from her lips was not her specialty, however the Living magic responded as it did for all Elementary conversation. It was rusty, but it worked, a rush of strength imbuing the couple as she invoked Adrenaline.

Dice
SidekickBOTToday at 23:13
@Raksha: `d6` = (3) = 3

Success.


Moving with care, and a burst of physical capability, the petite woman aided her husband to descend past the ground floor into the basement where the dining room and kitchen were contained. Placing him carefully onto one of the dining chairs, she felt heavy as the spell wore off, vaguely light headed from the casting. A touch of sweat beaded on her brow, even as Charity looked over him with a smile and a brush of gentle fingers over strawberry blonde locks.

“There now. You just sit here. I will get you something from the kitchen. Since you’ve been—” Biting her lip, the pale blonde hesitated, choosing her words a little better.

“Since I’ve been here I’ve learned how to do a thing or two in the kitchen. Mostly sandwiches, and a stew that Jsara wrote down for me. I only burnt the bottom, so it’s a little bitter, but its edible. With some bread, and I could warm some spiced mead I bought from the market. It’s…I like it.” Moving suddenly, Charity wrapped her arms around his neck tenderly, careful and yet unhindered.

“I missed you so much. So very much.” She breathed, holding him longer than she had intended, before drawing back and clearing her throat.

“Let me get you something to eat. Once you’ve started eating I’ll light the fireplace. The stove doesn’t take long at all to heat. I can bring you some cheese and cold meats whilst you wait for the stew and the mead. You must be starving.” She fussed, as though urgently requiring distraction before she broke into tears again. Truth be told, the blonde was hungry herself. She had eaten more than Rhys by far, but loneliness had left her unwilling to sit alone in the kitchen. It had been easier to skip a meal than to come down to the depths of the house alone.

"If you're cold for now, I can fetch you a cover from upstairs. And, once the fireplace down here is going it will warm the rest of the house. There's uh...I have...do you need..." The galdor gestured ridiculously, as though she had no clocking idea what to do for him, before nodding and escaping to the kitchen. Pottering around, she lit the stove and moved the cold stew over the hob, before grabbing a loaf of bread and a small wedge of cheese and placing them on a wooden cutting board with half a cured sausage and a sharp knife.

Returning to the dining room, she placed them down on the table before Rhys, sitting in the chair beside him to stare for a second before swearing under her breath and leaning forward to help cut cheese and meat with a titter.

"Sorry I'm not very good at this."

word count: 941
User avatar
Rhys Valentin
Posts: 168
Joined: Sun Jul 08, 2018 5:06 pm
Topics: 8
Location: Vienda
Race: Wick
: It's Inspector to you, thanks.
Character Sheet: Character Sheet
Post Templates: Post Templates
Plot Notes: Plot Notes
Writer: Muse
Contact:

Tue Apr 16, 2019 9:35 am

20th of Achtus, 2718
PAINTED LADIES | AFTERNOON
Charity slipped away from him, moving with every intention to help him sit up again. He really shouldn't have bothered, inhaling sharply as he carefully, gingerly, slowly swung his legs back over the edge of the bed and willed his body to stand,

"A few more days and the physician should be back. I think I'm looking forward to that. Maybe." Whined the tall blond, immediately aware of the foolishness of this endeavor, leaning far too heavily against the delicate pianist for support just to make it into the hallway. She stopped him and he was a breath away from begging to go back to bed, Rhys raising a hand to object to this entire idea when he felt her gather her field and recognized her spellwork, blue eyes widening for a moment. It was clever, her magic, and he would have smiled if it wasn't for the godsbedamned stairs.

Oh gods. The stairs.

What was he even thinking?

He glanced warily at them, down their incline, the dull ache in his entire torso that had become his current normal existence seeming to grow in intensity at the anticipation of the journey he'd requested.

But, down they went, not wanting to waste the magic Charity breathed into her very being on his behalf. It was pure agony, the jarring downward motion reducing him to wheezing sobs after the first flight and a sweaty, white-knuckled mess by the second. He had to pause, really, on the first floor, leaning against the wall and muffling noises of pain against knuckles clamped between teeth. His pulse seemed stuck against the stitches along the side of his forehead, the slowly knit together cracks in his eye socket thrumming with his elevated heart rate at the mere effort it took to hold himself together for one fucking flight of stairs.

A terrible mistake, but not his first. Not his last, either.

"One more." He growled, jaw set and determined.

He wasn't sure if he was even hungry by the time they reached the dining room or if he just wanted to throw up, ribs throbbing and the final act of sitting that infuriating further taunt of one more layer of discomfort. He leaned heavily against the table with his good elbow, hand trembling up to the good side of his face, crumpling into the seat, and his eyes fluttered closed for a moment at the brush of her fingers, not needing her to finish the words he deserved since he'd been home but so very absent.

The thought of so much food was intimidating, and he thought to dissuade all of the generosity offered to him, but Charity's arms held him tightly, unexpectedly, and he hitched a fiery breath, carefully reaching up to hold her longer and in turn. He opened his mouth to say he was sorry—again—but hummed a sad sound instead, pausing before he whispered, "I'm—I missed you, too. I—mmm."

It was difficult to pretend to be comfortable, but he closed his eyes in the lingering embrace until she pulled away. He smiled despite everything that hurt, watching as the petite blonde moved about with a nervousness not simply borne of the kitchen being a somewhat still-unfamiliar place but also because of the distance that had consumed them so quickly. That day had set everything on fire, and here they were still sitting in the ashes.

Everything felt so sharp and he whimpered, the sweat pooling against the small of his back was cool along the hem of trousers he should have changed. He probably could have put on a shirt, but all the effort with his arm in a sling was just not worthwhile, "I've got a coat around somewhere. Just something on my shoulders would be alright."

A plate of food was set before him and for a moment, Rhys could only stare at it, shifting with a hiss in his seat and making a slow move for the knife with one hand. The delicate pianist sat and he smirked at her, chuckling softly once she chided herself and relinquishing the utensil in his hand,

"No, it's fine. You've done so much already. Too much, really. Too much without me over the past few days and, gods, I'm pretty damn useless right now." He waggled his fingers from their curled place against bare skin, the movement of his slung arm causing his brow to furrow with the effort, "I should have been more helpful—this house, this place, this everything—I know the neighborhood. I know the patrols. I know the walks back to Uptown that will keep us unnoticed. I may know a few of our neighbors, fortunately or not—I—"

Not that he would have been any more helpful if medicated for the pain he was in, anyway. Refusing opiates or other narcotics for pain had been a conscious choice, yes, one that he was aware had hurt Charity deeply, had betrayed her trust even further, had cut even deeper, but he'd made the choice partly out of selfishness, too. The pain was his. He wanted to remember.

"—you've done a clocking amazing job, even though I've made this all so much harder because I'm an ersehole. This isn't the kind of life you've been prepared for, and I'm—You don't want me to say it again, I know, but I'm sorry." Rhys poked at the cheeses and meat she'd sliced, free hand carefully arranging himself some ambitious stack of things as if in revelation of how hungry he was, "At least the house will be easy to fix up, right?"

He offered a coy grin, twisted and made lopsided by stitches, before shoving food into his mouth to keep from saying anything else stupid or unnecessary.
word count: 1032
Post Reply Previous topicNext topic

Return to “Vienda”

  • Information
  • Who is online

    Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 0 guests