A Good, Long Look.

[Carnath-Emory]

Ariane... do you trust me?

In the company of like-minded men, certain things are simply... understood. Certain things go without saying, like the idea that there are some questions to which no reasonable reply can be given -- because they should never be asked in the first place.

This one was foremost amongst them.

Coran D'zir, keenly sensitive creature that he is, would never have asked it; might at most have hoped. His is, in some ways, a soldier's heart. Altias Bromn, whose sensitivities radiate from a very different perspective, had not even hesitated. So: I want to, she'd replied; that much was plain fact, and had been so since the day he'd leapt recklessly into a churning mob through which the Baie had prowled. I do, she'd said, and perhaps he'll someday forgive her for that necessary lie -- if he can comprehend the necessity to begin with.

But this was how she'd come to spend her night in the Governor's own chambers. For all that it was an opulent den, the surrounds had not entirely discomforted her. Oh, there was that matter of... arrangements, the brief verbal scuffle that had won her the chair, and maneuvered him into his bed. Surely he'd sleep off his disgruntlement, eventually. Oh, spare me the impracticalities of gentlemen. Vornheim had been worse, but then stubborness had defined that man -- and what matter of it, anyway? Bromn had been able to sleep, which her fears did not permit of her, so it was an arrangement which suited them both well, and nevermind his protests.

Besides, it gave her a chance to explore those chambers while he slept.

Habit and training had guided her in the assessment of doors and windows -- positions, strengths, the chances of the Governor surviving his fall, were there the need to vacate him abruptly through one or the other. Habit: the shifting of candelabras away from those heavy curtains, and the stifling of most of their flames. Habit: the wedging of that chair beneath the door's handle, as she wandered barefoot and silent between the rooms, learning their length, the set of furniture -- and curling toes into the plush rug as she walked, because the animal in her couldn't quite resist that luxury. Habit: vigilance in learning the patterns of his breath, the minute shifts of his body as it gradually succumbed to sleep.

It wasn't until he'd surrendered to it entirely, that she returned to the door and the huge dressing table which sat by it, for despite all his protestations, she was not about to disrobe while there remained a chance he might wake. And that was precisely what was necessary then. There'd been talk of her wounds, earlier that evening. Talk of scars she'd never seen, of eyes --

...terrible eyes...

-- and here, at last, she had the opportunity to witness this new and terrible marvel for herself. With the shirt crumpled on her lap and an arm wrapped around her chest, she'd turned her back towards the dressing table's tall mirror, head twisted owlishly around to peer at her own battered reflection. In truth, it wasn't so bad as it could have been. D'zir does fine work, and her back was a living testament to his skill: wounds that had taken three hours' stitching were sealed over now, with nothing but the pinkish gloss of thin scars to mark that they'd ever existed. Oh, she could make out the words, or at least the fact that they were words, but it was far from the gruesome mess of a week ago, far from --

She'd caught it, then. A hint of... something, high on the left shoulderblade. A hint of design, of purpose, hidden beneath the ragged fall of her hair until she'd craned her neck just so. Only by dint of some twisting upon the seat, some clawing away of that hair, had she been able to make out exactly what was scarred into her own pale skin. And then...

Ariane had told the Governor that she was incapable of sleep tonight. Several hours later, it was finally true. Such terrible eyes, she'd whispered to Mikhail, to Proxenus.

And now, it seemed, she wore one of them herself.

[Altias_Bromn]

If he were a more sensitive man, it would have been a night of crying. More to the point, if he did not care so much what she thought, it would have been so. The look she gave him when he asked if she trusted him, spoke volumes, her first answer had been the truest. "I want to" she could have left it at that. The lie which followed was a tiny dagger slipped between his ribs.

They argued then, of who would sleep in the bed. He wished for her to sleep there, for it was the gentlemanly thing to do. And, he wished her to be comfortable. he had no way of knowing that the bed had little to do with her comfort in his personal chambers. She thought it unseemly for the governor to sleep in a chair while she was comfortable, or so she said.

Altias lay, facing the wall, with a silk sheet pulled up to his chin. Locks of fiery red tumbled lazily over a fluffy pillow, one he had not wanted, not this night. Eyes were shut, breath was steady, even, but he did not sleep. Could not sleep. Oh, he could play the sleeping man, and would, giving Ariane the run of the room he called home.

Many things did he hear that night, two sat most disturbingly in his heart. First, her duty to him. The care with which she prepared this room, examined it for routes of escape, and prepped it for ease of defense if it came to that.
Second, the stopping of her breath when she saw the marking, the additional marking, on her back.

It was with a heavy heart that he remained facing the wall, pretending he heard nothing, and therefore saw nothing. Listened to the breath catch in her throat, the scrambling to move her hair so that she might better see the offensive mark. Would that he could have gone to her, tried in some way to bring her some form of comfort.

Instead, a fit of coughing wracked his frame. A single cough, proceeded into a series, which did not appear to be stopping any time soon. The coughing would bring him to sitting upright, the sheet clutched to his chest, fists clenched. Pale flesh would turn pink, then red, as the coughing continued.

Stumbling from the bed, hopefully having given her enough time to cover herself, his attention was the small sivler flask on the desk, containing nothing but water.

[Carnath-Emory]

It is a strange place, this Governor's den. So heavy are those drapes that they leave the rooms sombre and poorly lit, layered so thickly over shuttered windows that she can't quite be sure of the point at which night becomes dawn. It might have come hours ago. It might still be midnight. In these rooms, time is in the mind, not the sky.

But this much is clear: sudden noise in that darkened space, a light cough at first, and many more of them to follow. Caught between two imperatives, she attends to the one immediately at hand, fumbling the shirt back about her shoulders. She fastens toggles with a soldier's haste, that of a woman seldom given the privacy of time to dress more carefully, and shooting up from the chair when half of them are done. Towards that bed then, quick feet on soft carpet -- only to be met partway there, and fall back with a wry twist of chagrin upon her lips.

It is an awkward moment. The cough is not so severe as to keep him from rising, obviously; it's no real threat at all. So about she must step, startled concern lingering in her eye, to finish her dressing with all the leisure she'd wished for, and her back turned towards the man so desperate to soothe his throat with drink. She speaks not a word, in these early moments -- How long ago had he woken? -- for very few of them occur to her, and those which do... hah. She will not insult the man by asking after a cough that's amounted to so little, and certainly not when a flush of colour lingers high in her cheeks.

Quick fingers work those toggles, quick and nimble, and the silence grows between them until it's heavy as those curtains and twice as stifling. Something should be said, but... I mean to kill a man, she could state, and alarm him horribly. This is not my place, and it's strange to stand here knowing that, she might say, and he'd surely take it for as insult, instead of explanation. I have remembered me some of what happened, she could offer -- and embark on a subject of which she remains quite uneducated. She has nothing to give him but vagaries and uncertainty, little but poorly-phrased warnings and alarmist whispers. Difficult. Why must it always be so difficult?

"I have seen what you described," she forces out then, as she steps past him towards the curtains. What is the hour? Knowing that would help somehow, surely. "You've my thanks for that." Fingers that are deft upon a sword-hilt fumble, with the heavy fabric; they tangle in burgundy and black, hunt for the shutters beneath. It's a fine distraction. It's also an excellent excuse not to face the Governor, as she asks: "If I should harm the man who did this time." This. It needs no further explanation. "If he were to die at my hand. What would the law reckon of that?"

The curtains are a hopeless cause. She abandons them after some moments of struggle, twists back about to face Bromn once more, and there's a wry smile tugging at her lips, as she adds: "A long night. I trust you have slept well."

[Altias_Bromn]

"What would be the law?"

You should receive a medal. That was his first thought, however, murder was murder, despite the circumstances, wasn't it?

"I would imagine this would be something that the council would have to take into consideration. The circumstances are...extreme."

I would forgive you...anything. were the words he wished to speak, but could not. The kiss, so easily put aside for her, it seemed, should also be so for him. Altias was not a man who easily forgot affection, and thus he would temper his responses.

"I slept...little."

It was not a complete lie, just one to allow her to be comfortable and not think he had listened to her movements all night long.

"I would assume it was the same for you."

The sheet wrapped around him loosely at his waist, he seemed not at all bothered by her presence, as he sipped his water, one hand clutching the sheet for safety sake.

"Tell me what you remember."

It was a phrase like so many he had uttered of late. Not as much a demand as a request, but he would expect nothing short of her cooperation. This ...incident, nearly cost her the life that he valued more than his own. He would not have something else happen to her because of this. of course, these words too, went unspoken.

"Tell me everything you can recall about the visit from this man."

Somehow the woman seemed less important. This man, who she had mistaken for a doctor, must have had something to do with this.

"Pretend you are speaking to someone else. Please spare no detail because you fear the effect upon my...delicate nature."

His nose would turn up, wrinkle a bit, at the very idea, but it was said. The flask in one hand, he would return to the safely of his bed. More for her comfort than his own. He would sit there, on its edge, burgundy silk wrapped loosely around him, waiting.

[Carnath-Emory]

Extreme. There is her chance. There'd been trouble of this sort in the past -- a matter of regicide, the awkwardness of several witnesses willing to testify to the woman's actions. The woman being exonerated, weeks later. 'Self defense', they'd deemed it, and perhaps that is the key to all of this, if a mere beating won't prove sufficient to her purpose. It's something, to have the Governor's own word on this, to have this single certainty:

That there are no guarantees.

Thin fingers toy with a candelabra's glittering base, sleeve employed to rub dusty prints from the brass, a moment after. Restless. "Good," she nods, as he speaks of rest, and let that nod be reply, as well as approval. Let it be him that assumes, this time, and let that assumption for once work in her favour. Surely fate will permit such small mercies, however infrequently. And there she stands for a time, long and narrow and awkward, before the silk-clad man who's skin she'd tasted not even a week before.

Mint and ozone...

But that is a ghastly, causeless recollection, flung from her mind with a wince. She must force herself to meet his gaze directly, and does so; must force herself to look upon him, and nevermind that he has a sheet about his waist and nothing else. To look away now, to avert her face in the intimate privacy of his own chambers, would be to insult the man -- who is possessed of curious sensibilities, of mores and habits that she only now begins to comprehend. So she looks, and keeps as much from her eye as she can, and hopes that he might guess that it's only care which restrains her from... oh, a great many things.

His questions are a mercy.

They send her to pacing, newfound direction and luxurious rugs combining to drive her to and fro across the room, a hand already waving away his disclaimer. "Delica -- ? No. I've no such fear." He has perhaps mistaken himself for Sawyer, who a sane and reasonable world would have spared from all of this. Bare toes curl into the rugs. Grimy hands fold at the small of her back. And:

"I cannot tell it well." A disclaimer to rival his own. "The pain was -- " a topic best not elaborated upon. "He came to my room unbidden; his voice was gentle; he spoke of... of religious matters. Still, I first thought him a doctor, for he commanded the woman who came after him, and she did not hesitate but to follow as he bade." A glance is shot towards him, uncessarily, for she surely still holds his attention.

"She fetched... things, at his direction. I do not recall -- " a brief shake of the head. "He fetched salve for the wounds, to ease their pain; he spoke of blood. He wore white robes." As had all the others. The certainty is bright in her mind.

"He asked if I trusted him."

The glance she turns towards Bromn, then, is a pointed thing -- and followed by a shake of the head, with the sinking knowledge that he'll surely interpret that in the worst possible way. A spin upon one bare heel drives her onwards across the rugs. "Blood. Dreams. The woman thought me crazed." And who could blame her? "She still does. He -- he showed her the wounds, and she thought them a lover's work." Mortifying. It stains her cheeks with soft colour, but here is a sharper glance flung to the man, a pause to her stride.

"He thought it horrible of you. He somehow knew you."

Knew you. Think on that, Altias Bromn. But her pacing resumes, and in time so does the recitation. "He... spoke of you. He whispered... terrible things of you." A hand claws through her butchered hair, helplessness stiffening her for an instant. "I do not recall his words. You see? What I remember is useless. He wore white robes, that is something. I could not see his face, not even his eyes, for they were bound as if he were blind, but Altias -- " And finally, she pauses scant feet from the man, lips set into a thin, flat line.

"Altias, I saw his eyes. Not since Kanpar have I seen so terrible a thing, but I could not remember. You see? Like so much else, like that I fear for you but know not why; that he horrified me, for reasons that I cannot remember. But you have your mirror here -- " she gestures towards it wildly "-- and as you slept, I looked to see what Coran had accomplished, and. And." Swallows, drily.

"The eyes I saw were not the ones in his head. You see? He dropped the robe from his shoulders, and in his back they were carved over and over, and one more terrible than all the rest; it bled, as if it were fresh. Such.. terrible eyes, a host of them so that I would know I was always watched.

That was when I fled."

[Altias_Bromn]

A horrific thing to witness, no doubt of that. Eyes, all manner of such, carved into the flesh. The very idea would send shivers down his spine. Alabaster skin would rise, the gooseflesh apparent to her in such close proximity.

"Has the thought occured to you..."

He would pause then, fingers toying nervously with errant strands of silken fire which threatened to obscure his view of her.

"...that this man who came to see you, may have sent the one who attacked us? White robe you said? Horrible coincidence?"

Nathan's lifeless body sprang to his vision, the dream so fresh in his mind. The images of his bedroom, the blood, the mutilated flesh, return as if he had walked in his lover's blood only yesterday, fueled by that blasted dream.

"He is dead because of me, you know. Nathan."

Random? Perhaps. The horrors of what had been done to Ariane, though she yet lived, had cut him just as deeply as what had happened to Nathan. He should have been there. Should have performed some penance that would have saved them.

"I do not think you should be alone. I know you will not stay here. I Know you will not wish me to stay with you. Perhaps you could ask Quincy. You trust her with your life."

You trust her, as you want to trust me.

Rising from the bed, it was his turn to pace, the sheet tucked easily at his waist. He had done so a thousand times. Turning his back to her, perhaps to ease the doubts that may have formed, it was free of any such marks. Scars, certainly, but ones of battle and beating alike. None put there for pleasure, or for fear.

"It was terrible of me. I should not have left you. I soothed my own pain and not yours. A good Master would not even leave his trusted slave after a brutal beating without seeing to the slave's care. I treated you poorly. I should have been there to sooth you, not of body, but of mind."

It was then that he would turn, those invasive eyes locking on hers of singular grey. The pain etched on his face, mere words would never sooth it.

"I left you. As I left Nathan. It is the luck of the Gods and those who watched out for you when I should have, that you stand here before me today. That man...that creature could have killed you...and I would have returned to find nothing but blood and a broken shell of the woman I ..."

"It was unforgivable. Stupid, petty, immature and foolish. If that man knew me, then perhaps he knew me better than I know myself. For I did not see the error of my ways that night until it would have been far too late to save you."

Again he turned from her, hanging his head. It would be her time to flee once more. The emotions of Altias Bromn overwhelming even he who weilded them so sharply. At the least he had said it, given himself the condemnation he had deserved from her, and perhaps would still receive. Sorrow and anger raged in near equal doses within him. He fully expected to find a silent and empty room when he turned once more to face her...if in fact he could find the strength to do so.

[Carnath-Emory]

Has it occured to her?

"It has. Many things have occured to me, and I mean to have those questions answered." Which may well be the source of her questions for Bromn himself. "Until then, I prefer to assume nothing. That has brought me nothing but trouble and regret, in the past, and I -- " A shake of the head then, and when he rises, she takes his place upon the bed's edge, if only for sake of her wearied limbs. Legs fold beneath her, palms soaking up the soft texture of velvet; another rare luxury.

"I will -- " do as I please, but that's bitten back before it can be spoken; it is unjustly harsh. Vornheim had instilled at least some modicum of restraint in the woman. Then again, the third-born had also exhibited some small, bizarre jealousy of her closeness to Quincy, and she must examine Bromn for a moment now, with this in mind. "I do, Altias." Let it be clear, let it be plainly spoken, so that there is no confusion on the matter. "She is my sister, she is -- " half of my heart "-- much of what has kept me to Myrken for so long. And she has concerns of her own. She will know of this soon, but I will not demand her as my guard." Anymore than she would Sawyer, if for distinctly different reasons.

But now it is done, the necessary explanation, or at least a part of it. Fingertips worry at the thick velvet, as he paces, and oh, there's a glance to his naked back; she cannot quite help that much. Scars, yes. Scars with no pattern but the most militant sort. Her eye has practice enough to recognise that much. The sight is a balm, an incalculable relief. The words that follow, however, are quite the opposite; of a sudden her spine is stiffening, astonishment stark upon her sharp features.

"Pain? But you had -- " More words to be throttled before they can emerge. Unjust, perhaps. But, more importantly, unnecessary, and certainly not well thought-out. She'd spared little thought at all, for those three hours, aware that this is likely cowardice in the extreme. But: Master; slave; beating. It irks, it infuriates, the only thing this evening that has made her want simply to flee. There is a protest unspoken upon her lips, more of the same in her eyes, and Vornheim's fine advice eventually must fail her. A hand slaps upon the bedding, accomplishing nothing whatsoever.

"No! This -- this is ridiculous, Altias. This is madness. You have me akin to Nathan? He was a fine man who deserved far better than he suffered, yes. There is no doubting that. But you are a fool if you think yourself responsible for it, a fool and unjust -- to him, as well as yourself." This is not the time for such conversation. He is in no more fit a mood for it than she, who has scarcely slept and is less pleasant for the fact. But for the first time in weeks, she is struck by the sense that they are discussing something that they should... and she is loathe to abandon it now.

"He chose. Is that not his right? Or are you so accustomed to command that you do not permit this of your, your lovers? He chose. I choose. I choose to be here, and if some many-eyed, chyort horror bursts through your door this instant, the responsibility is mine. And now you will think this hypocrisy, but there are two, two reasons that I urge a thing of you that I do not myself heed."

She unfolds from the bed then, however loathe she might be to leave its inviting comforts; necessity demands that of her. "The first is training, yes: I know that you have been taught, and if you wish to wield a weapon against me tomorrow to prove me wrong, then you shall have the opportunity. Until then, I remain confident that my skill is superior, and my weapon as well." There is, at least, no harshness in her tone: such things are facts, and stated as such. "And the second is what flows in my veins -- Altias, in five long years the armour has failed me twice, only twice. Do you think there has not been the opportunity for more than that?" A shake of the head. "No. You know better than that. Twice, Altias, and only a single weapon has pierced it in all that time: a dragon's own claw, and however foul my enemies might be, however inhuman, I doubt they are of that sort. Their weapons are, are clubs, and I say: let them do their worst, and learn the meaning of futility. I will teach it to them gladly."

It is a speech the likes of which she's not given in -- hah, in years. She is left trembling and resolute despite it, colour risen high in her sharp-boned cheeks, the grey eye a relentless blaze.

"I say to you that you must not make such offers as you did, that you must not... trade your life for mine. But it is not only my heart which wants this of you: it is simple reason. My flesh will remain whole. Yours will not. I am not Nathan, Altias. I do not die so easily. I am not meat to stand and be butchered -- and even that night, even as addled as my mind was, I remember that there was metal on my skin. He wanted me alive, Altias, but even had he not, he would have found his wishes thwarted. So you see? Enough of this fear! I cannot stand it. I will not."

It is more a tirade, than a challenge. But it still leaves her shaking, a narrow and dark-clad thing in this opulent den of a room. After all, it hadn't only been his fear which prompted such words from her.

[Altias_Bromn]

"And what would you have me do now? Shall I analyse every pause in your speech and read what I think you might have said?"

Turning now, he faces her, hands clasped behind his back, silk hanging low on his hips. Again does that gaze, both summer breeze and winter night, weigh heavily upon her. Stalking forward, firm hands press flat against her shoulders, the sudden motion forcing her to sit back on the bed.

"Or shall I open the front door and let you walk away, to be naught but teacher and defender to me? Allow you to believe that I think you need nothing from me, want nothing from me, save my compliance."

"Shall I turn cold, and desire nothing of you? Pay you in icy gold coin, and turn away?"

"Shall I throw you back on that bed and make you remember how much of a woman you really are? How desirable you are to me and many others. Or would you prefer that I become the safe little fop you thought you knew?"

Dangerously close now. Close enough to make good on his words, or to have his arse handed to him in handy equal parts. From this position he towers over her, the alcove he sleeps in becoming either a comforting place of warmth, or a sudden enclosed tomb.

"You ask the impossible. You ask that simply because you have something within you to keep you safe, that I stop worrying. Well I can not. I do not know that I would, even if I knew how."

"What I want right now is to take you in my arms and help you to cease your shaking. To perhaps, even forget about all of this until morning. To foget about those things that haunt us both. Lovers, muderers, ghosts. Sadly, I know that such will not be."

"Sadly...your tiny kiss upon the corner of my mouth will have to hold me. Run...Ari. This is not the place you wish to be. I will forver be your ward, at best your friend."

Even with those words, he stands before her, close enough to feel the breath from her lips against his stomach. Let her do what she will, at least he has finally spoken, no matter how angry she will be.

[Altias_Bromn]

"Remember Altias, everything that you want can be yours, you have to learn that it may not always come in the way you expect it. Allow yourself to accept things as they come to you, never force. Do you understand?"

"I understand, Mother."

So young then, and she so vibrant, so youthful, so alive. So much wisdom in her words, and yet sometimes they fade away, leaving him clawing for the tattered memory of them in his dreams.

As the dream form of his mother turned to move back into the house, the small boy wanted to cling to her, beg her not to leave him.

"I will always be with you, my son. You will always know where to find me, when you are in need."

And he did. There in the Rose Garden, beside the fountain...a place that now only existed in his dreams.

As the sun peeked in through the tiny crack in those heavy curtains, Altias stretched awake. A slow, smouldering smile tickled his lips as his arm brushed the warm body beside him. Violet eyes would rest on her peaceful features. The mask of indifference was gone, replaced by the smallest smile. Perhaps she had relaxed a bit after all. A kiss was placed, gently, on that sweet spot where neck joins shoulder, before slipping out from between the silk sheets.

Let her rest. Gods know she has earned it, everything that has happened demanded that she finally find some measure of peace.

It was with a spring in his step, a chuckle on his lips, that he dressed in light cotton clothing of crimson. A quick look in the mirror, before he was casting one final glance to the bed, and the lovely woman sleeping in it.

"Rest well. I will see you again soon."

With that, Altias Bromn was off to see a woman about a ship and some water.

[Carnath-Emory]

The moon shines...
The wind howls...
My girl, my girl, run away from me --

[Carnath-Emory]

The moon shines...
The wind howls...
My girl, my girl, run away from me --

Ariane Emory wakes with thunder in her ears, and a mouthful of velvet.

A blurry sidelong glance discovers that the bed is otherwise empty, and the room as well; that she'd slept in that bed -- which means she was damned fortunate to wake at all. She hadn't intended to sleep, and almost hadn't. Nine years after the fact, certain terrors still dictate her habits, and this is one of them: I keep myself to myself, she'd insisted long ago to Vornheim, and in earnest, the fear of smothering being a potent thing. And yet at some point, she'd succumbed to silken sheets, to velvet covers and a warm body whose simple presence should have horrified her. It had not.

Her world has become yet a little stranger.

The sliver of blazing sunlight, all that the curtains permit, sees her cringing as she untangles herself from the sheets. Sluggish ease vanishes, when she finds a basin of cold water: the first splash of it to her face washes the laziness from her limbs, prompts her mind to clarity.

I must kill a man, today.

There is work to do, a great deal of it. There are certain things to be had of the marketplace. There are certain conversations which must follow -- Mikhail must be reassured that she yet lives, and Kildrummy as well, lest he come bearing arms to the Governor's door. Her sister must be consulted on certain pressing matters. And she must strip the shirt from a man's back to see what comes of that discourtesy, for she'd seen... something, during that long ride a week and more ago. A hint of something terrible. And she never did have that much faith in coincidence...

Hoping to beat the devil at his own game...

Bromn's own words, at some point during the long night which had left her here in his empty rooms. Fastening her shirt, belt, boots, she has time to reflect on that. His words had been a challenge, of course: to herself, to fate -- another intangible in which she had little faith. There'd been a great many such challenges lately, not all of them benign. But here is a thought that a woman can smile upon, as she leaves this room behind her; here is a thought to kindle fresh hope in her heart: that there have been so many of these challenges, these dares...

And yet she finds herself increasingly eager to meet them.