Agony.

That was the only word that could describe the experience of watching this play. It was not a bad one, admittedly - the actors were good, and Cyran could feel their passion in every word, every movement, every longing look. And every godsdamned stanza, every monologue reminded Cyran of… earlier.

Truly, he needed to stop thinking of earlier.

It didn’t mean anything. Del had probably already put the incident out of her mind, and he was the only one hung up on this. Goodness, he truly needed to get a grip. There was an assassin on the prowl, in this very play-

That could not seriously be the monologue.

By the time the scene ended with the young couple on the balcony in an embrace so tight and warm that the world might fall apart if they released one another, Cyran thought that he might simply melt into his seat if he watched any more. How much longer did they have left of this showing?

…

The final act could not come quick enough.

A tragedy between two young lovers, whose passion tore the world around them apart, until there was nothing left but the two of them - a love that descended to madness, ending with a single dagger, plunged into a heart. The masked figure raised his arm, a dagger clutched in his hand -

Metal glinted under candlelight -

Screams erupted in the audience as the actor’s arm slipped, a seemingly unintentional slip-up that sent the fake weapon soaring through the air into the crowd. Or at least, that had been the assassin’s intention. And perhaps it would have succeeded, if it were not for the paranoid man who had replaced the weapon with a fake before the play nearly started.

The dagger bounced harmlessly off of Virion Zirona’s chest, clattering to the floor. The public attempt, foiled.

In the chaos that ensued it was difficult for Cyran to follow the actor’s retreat backstage. He jumped to his feet, immediately pushing his muddled thoughts aside in favor of this. While everyone was focused on Virion, Cyran sprinted towards the stage, vaulting over the side, passed stunned actors and through the curtain. The assassin would not get away from him this time.

But the backstage was empty.

Cyran swore under his breath in elvish. They had been so close… the relief of saving Virion’s life was undercut by the frustration of losing who they were after yet again. This had been their only lead. And with all his costumes, the assassin could simply disappear into the crowd, become a noble and hide themselves until they could try again.

In the wake of that performance, two things had become obvious: someone was after Virion Zirona’s life, and that assassin knew that someone was watching after him, thwarting any attempts on his life.

So much for handling this quickly and efficiently.

Cyran held out his hand, summoning the fake dagger back to his awaiting palm.^[1] The slime was tucked back away in his pocket, having done its job. By the time he returned to Del, servants were already ushering guests out to their rooms.

“There is nothing to worry about, ladies and gentlemen… this was all part of the show. It was an interactive experience! The play is over, please head to your rooms in an orderly fashion…”

Cyran shook his head subtly at Del, lips pursed. Letting her know he’d failed. This small victory felt a bittersweet, tense one. But there was nothing they could do except for head back to their room for the evening. The ship would be on high alert - even as the fake-couple made their way through the halls, there was a tension simmering in the air, the guard presence setting passengers on edge. The assassin would not make another attempt tonight.

But Cyran’s thoughts were so troubled he didn’t think he would be able to rest easily.

---

1. Summon: Possession

How long was this bloody play?

Every lingering glance, each scene is filled with heat and passion-- these actors were certainly giving it their all. The crowd, when Del thought to look around themselves, seeme quite taken with the whole thing. The icing on the cake is when one of one of the secondary characters pulls her sweetheart offstage, presumably into a private room, followed by unseen giggles, before the next act begins.

The way the actors waxed poetic about closeness, about daring to touch hands without gloves, the skin-to-skin intimacy of kissing one's hand (oh, remember when he kissed your hand?), that the tingles, the burning, were being experience by people who were... were madly...

Was it possible to evaporate from mortification?

It didn't occur to her in the least that some of what she was feeling, the uncertainty, the fluster, the tension, the vague sensation of being drunk and off-kilter was mirrored across the connection of their rings.

The tragedy, when the final scenes of the third act comes, have the audience enraptured. Del silently curses whoever this 'assassin' was for it; waiting until the climax of the play was poetic and timely, certainly, but it was showy for her taste.

Which is what she decides to think about instead of the two people who were so in love that they could dance among the fire and the flames of the world that burned around them. Forces herself to, despite the tears at the corners of her eyes and a terrible ache in her chest.

The masked man raises his dagger-- and it seems to twist in his hold, like he had dropped it mid-throw. And yet it flew straight, right into the chest of Virion Zirona, bouncing off harmlessly.

The panic that sweeps the room is swift, and Del and Cyran are quick, but not enough. She splits off from him, not going backstage, but taking a route around the other side of the stage opposite from where Cyran had run, a path clearer than his. A stagehand stops her as she tries to get back there, holding out his hands as people start to come out to try and calm the crowd.

"Ma'am, where do you think you're going?"

For a moment, Del debates clocking him and running back there anyway. But, the desire to not disappoint Cyran, to keep their cover, gives her pause. "Fire... exit?" she offers, panting slightly.

The stagehand gives her an sympathetic grimace, and ushers her and the others who had started to gather away. "Please exit in an orderly fashion through the main doors."

She resists the urge to glower at the stagehand-- Damn his eyes-- and graciously nods, before moving to check on Virion and Layla. She did not get to have a conversation, as they were whisked away the fastest, but she manages to offer some comfort in passing as they are guided past by the security hired by the ship.

'Interactive experience', now that was a hell of a spin.

Her expression is full of genuine concern when Cyran returns to her side, reaching out to pull him close by his arm. She gives him a gentle nod as he shakes his head to her, understanding, and follows the guidance of the ship's security, filing dutifully out of the auditorium area as they return to their room.

Their private room. After a play like that and a burst of adrenaline that culminated in a hunt that was not successful.

Once they are within the room itself, the door closed, Del turns to Cyran, her lips a wry twist. It was still hard to... look at him, but it was easier than it was. "Well... that's two attempts thwarted now. I don't think whoever they were was expecting that last one." She sits on the bed to take off her heels and tosses them toward the wall. Gods, she still felt blazingly warm. She tugs on the collar of her dress, clearing her throat. "They're likely doing a sweep of the ship right now, but I doubt they'll find him."

It was difficult not to feel a twinge of frustration once they returned to their room. Cyran moved to sit on the corner of their shared bed while Del kicked her heels into the corner with a vendetta, eliciting a small, shy laugh from him. He did not envy her for having to wear such uncomfortable shoes. The few times he’d worn heels in his life, Cyran remembered it being a miserable experience, limiting his mobility. Her words that followed, though, at least offered a small balm to his frustration.

“You’re right.” That was two attempts thwarted now in as many nights - he supposed that was as good a success rate as any. They could not allow themselves to get complacent, though the constant vigilance, that the assassin had slipped through his grasp now…

Cyran was supposed to be a hunter. Perhaps not in the traditional sense, but this - the chase, the kill, that was all he was good for. This nasty, awful work. If Cyran could not even do this much, then what good was he?

“There’s no more doubt that Virion has some manner of protection.” Cyran murmured, closing his eyes as he ran a hand through his hair. Tugging at the knots and tangles he had still not managed to properly straighten after their impromptu rendez-vous in the actor’s closet. “Our only saving grace is that they have no idea who. Though by now they have concealed their identity, as well. We’re both back to square one.”

He picked himself up and quickly went through the process of slipping into his night tunic before laying down on his side of the bed. It creaked under his weight. Its downy plushness felt far too comfortable, to the point where it almost unnerved him.

“This should buy us some time, though. They will be less impatient to try so brazenly, knowing that Virion has protection not far away.” He offered Del a wane smile, attempting to look at the positives, but no doubt his tone betraying his worry. That gambit had saved Virion’s life but tipped their hand, a double-edged blade.

Tomorrow, he would think how to use that weapon to their advantage. They still had the meeting with Virion tomorrow evening, assuming the couple was not too shaken by the attempt on his life. From there… they would play it by ear.

Now, it was time to trade in one daunting mission for one that was possibly even more excruciating. As Cyran lay in bed, waiting for Del to join him as she had the night before, the reality of their situation was beginning to set in. That she had… kissed him earlier. It had been to cover their tracks, admittedly a bit of quick thinking. But that, coupled with the play, was weighing on his mind, a distraction he could not afford. He doubted Del was even thinking about it.

He could still taste her lipstick on the corner of his mouth.

And that play…

If Lunala was alive, she was surely out to torture him.

“It has been… a long day.” Cyran murmured. “I suppose it is time for us to rest. It will only be another long day tomorrow.” They had a monumental task set before them - getting close to the Zirona family without arousing suspicion from anyone around them.

With enemies abound, he could no longer trust anyone on the ship, save the woman in front of him. Cyran may as well savor this unguarded feeling as long as he could.

He could already feel himself uncoiling as he hit the bed.

She gives Cyran a weary, tiny smile as she feels his hackles smooth over a little. Her eyes follow his hand as he runs it through his hair, fingers catching snags. Her hands twitch for a moment, reflexively wanting to reach up and help him untangle them. Instead, she knits her fingers together, taking a slow breath. Why in the world did she still feel so dizzy?

Dels gaze returns to him, listening attentively to his thought. Cyran truly did take himself and hs work so seriously. "The good news is, they have no idea who interfered." Del assures. At least, she thought not. Fortunately, the pair of them being caught in the dressing room was substantially better cover than even anticipated.

And here she was, still justifying it. Still thinking about it, still running it over in her mind. She bites her lip again.

"We have a much better idea of who they are than they do of us. We know how they got here, and who might be missing from the acting group now that the ship's guards are alerted to them as well," she continues, at least attempting to embolden and encourage him, as she peels off her dress to trade it for her own nightshirt. Her mouth opens to continue, and then snaps shut as she lifts her eyes just in time to see Cyran remove his shirt.

The dressing room comes rushing back to her all at once, flooding her body and mind with heat. The scars on his back she had seen the night before, the protective feeling... stronger now, for some reason, but mingled with the breathless sensation of seeing just the smallest remaining print of her lipstick beneath the hollow of his jaw.

Del stands up fast enough to nearly give herself a head rush and returns his smile, just as Cyran sits back down on the plush surface. She clears her throat, but her voice still feels thick on her tongue. "Then, ah, we'll get lots of chances to warm up to Viridian.. Virion. Ah. Back in a moment." She gives him another smile,-- a shy, reassuring one-- as she heads to the watercloset to conclude her night time routine

It was in this instant that Del profoundly wished she did not have such a fear of drowning, otherwise she would have dunked her head in the washbasin for a good minute or two. Instead, she splashes her face with water, and then rests her head against the wall for a few minutes. Resisting the urge to bonk her head every time there's a flash of the play, the dressing room, her lips on his skin.

Honestly, it's a miracle that she only gives in once.

Cyran was a professional. That... incident was far from his mind, she was sure. A necessary means to an end. Nothing more.

And yet, if she let her thoughts drift for too long, her skin remembers the sensation of pulling his jacket apart by the lapels... like the dancing in the ballroom, but private. Personal. Intimate.

Splashing her face with water again, Del emerges after a few minutes to take her space in the bed next to him. Elen's space next to Ilias. Del and Cyran did not share a bed; they were not married.

Odd that thought should make her feel as sad as it does.

She's quickly distracted again, though, as she curls up, the blanket pulled up to her shoulder so she can nestle into the bed. Her head touching the pillow is blessed, the damn bed is so plush and inviting, but gods, she still feels so warm.

Nothing at all to do with the presence of the person beside her, no.

"Mmm," Del hums in the dark, a thoughtful and wholehearted agreement. Her eyes are closed, closed so she cannot see the softness of his sleepy face, cannot see the silver gleam of his single moonlight eye, cannot let the feelings of Elen affect her more than they already have. Elen loved her Illias so much, it was sometimes staggering. "It will, but we can take our time."

She can't help it. Del cracks her eyes open, blearily looking at Cyran in the silent pause between their words. The room was almost stiflingly quiet; she could hear the gentle rise and fall of his breath in his chest, see how his face relaxed slightly as he started to drift. Should she ask about the dream thing and how it worked? ...No, best save that for morning. Cyran was trying to sleep, after all. "Goodnight." Del murmurs, trying to slip into unconsciousness and doze.

---

Del herself does not sleep. Too awake. Too alert, her brain running like a river over the side of a mountain. The play, the dressing room, the room, the dancing, Hearth's Day, all spin on a rotating series of memories and words as she tries to find some sleep. She doesn't toss and turn, at least-- too disciplined for that, even at rest. But she does cave, again, some hours after her and Cyran's words had faded into the darkness, and opens her eyes to look upon him as he sleeps.

There's no change in his expression she can discern, as his back is turned; only a soft inhale and exhale as he breathes. Like peace, but not... more like something... still. Paused.

She really ought not be watching him while he slept.

Still, she found herself deeply curious. He had gone into her dreams last night; that was not a place she wanted to go to again, not tonight. She still didn't know how the whole thing worked, but what harm was there in trying?

Swallowing her anxiety, she shifts forward in the bed, touching her ring. Del feels the pulse of his energy through it, the tendril of his subconcious mind that was still and slumbering. Leaning carefully forward, draping her arm over his waist-- closeness was needed, he had said-- she closes her eyes and allows the pulse of his magic to sweep through her and into him, casting the spell.[1]

---

[1] Cyran's Dream Walker (Ring of Eternity)

“Goodnight to you as well.” Cyran bid, managing a sleepy, impossibly fond smile, one reserved just for her. Once, back at their Hearth Day date, he’d bid that Lunala grant Del good dreams, utterly unaware of the nightmares that plagued her sleep. As he drifted off, Cyran reached out to her, ready once more to venture into Del’s nightmare and free her from her prison of pitch-black water.

He could have never imagined that she would be waltzing into his, instead.

---

The Fenastra family mansion was a proud one. Built deep within the heart of Eclipse City, the pale-white building towered over its neighbors at a grand four stories high. Though its architects intended for it to appear modest, it had obviously been commissioned and built with wealth in mind. Stained glass windows depicted the moon in different phases, a kaleidoscope of different colors that shimmered over the short-cut grass and the fountain burbling just outside the front grounds. For a home built in such a wild place, the grounds felt oddly… manicured.

This was the mansion that Delaela Asiliari found herself in. She had never been here before in her life, it was not entirely unfamiliar to her. Though it might take her a second to parse through her memories and determine where she’d seen such a place before, it would not take long to come to her. It had only been a day since she’d seen it, after all.

It seemed that no matter how Cyran was determined to get away from this place, it followed him wherever he went.

Blink - a split second and Del was no longer in the grounds, but in the middle of a grand foyer, with no memory of the walk there. The inside, if at all possible, was even more sterile than the outside.

Cold. The first sensation she would be struck with was the cold. Not just in the temperature, but in the way that everything felt still, lifeless, and muffled. In the white of the walls, in the too-high ceiling, housing a chandelier composed of magical shimmercrystals rather than candles, in the muffled stillness of everything. It was all so dispassionate.

The foyer itself contained sparse furnishings. Tables lined the walls, little square things made of oaken wood - sturdy, Del would be able to tell with her keen carpenter’s eye. If she decided to wander closer, she would notice that each table housed a different, inane trinket. One table housed a single bottle, containing enchanted snow and a note, written in neat, cursive script, ‘to Iryla’. Another contained a ship in a bottle. And as she moved down the line she would only reveal that each contained only a single item, seemingly having no rhyme or reason. A necklace, a crate of wine, a poker chip, a ceremonial dagger decorated with sakura blossoms, plans for a strange machine written in gnomish, a bottle of holy water…

A ring.

Odd furnishings for a mansion, certainly. These little pieces of life, of love, didn’t belong here. As Del stood there, nameless servants with shifting black black holes that buzzed like a swarm of flies moving in tandem flitted around her, picking up trinkets that didn’t belong, dusting and polishing as they went. Their movements formed a well synchronized dance, sweeping in circular motions like the neat, perfect movements that made up a clock’s innards. Slowly, they went through the motions of cleaning tables, leaving them neat and pristine, carrying the trinkets away through a pair of doors in the back - to a storage room, no doubt.

One of the servants broke away from the crowd to start dusting a placard hanging on the wall, one that contained a curious phrase in elvish:

THE MOON WILL ECLIPSE THE SUN.

Right above the placard was a portrait.

It looked to be a painting of a family, but there was something… odd about it. No matter how hard Del concentrated on its contents, to make out features on the family’s face, the more it seemed to elude her grasp. Even concentrating on singular features - the pinch of the man’s brow, or the stern purse of the woman’s lips - only seemed to drive the memories further into the recesses of her mind until they evaporated like smoke.

Perhaps it was best she couldn’t remember their faces. There was no happiness contained in those brush strokes, anyways.

The sound of shoes striking marble tile echoed behind her. They were soft, as if they belonged to someone who wished to diminish their presence as much as possible, though had yet perfected their methods. A hand brushed against Del’s shoulder - soft, lacking any scars or callouses. The figure behind her cleared their throat, hesitant.

“Excuse me… I don’t think you’re supposed to be here.”

And if Del were to turn around, she would see him.

He didn’t look exactly as she remembered - his usual dark jacket had been swapped out for a robe the color of moonlight, and a silver leaf-circlet rested on the crown of his head, framing inky-black hair that spilled over his shoulders, long on both sides rather than his signature shaved look. The hair at his temples had been pulled backwards, tugged into a long, thin braid that was styled in a bun on the top of his head. Silver eyes - both intact - blinked at her without an ounce of recognition on his features.

In this place, wherever it was, Cyran did not seem to properly remember her.

At least, not until he saw her face. There was a glimmer of… something that flashed across his face. Cyran brought a hand to his cheek, looking less sure than Del had ever seen him in their few months of acquaintance.

“At least, I thought you weren’t supposed to be here, but… I feel as if I’ve seen you before.” He bit his lip. “Forgive me for overstepping my bounds, but have we met before? Are you perhaps here to see my father?”

It feels so odd to be terribly lucid while in the midst of sleeping, as if her conscious mind had split in two so she could do this task. The act of magic was foreign to her; she was using Cyran's ability, and not her own. As far as Del knew, she had no ability.

This was but a small taste of what she knew Cyran was capable of. Feeling the fabric of the dream twist around her, she looks up.

Of all the places Del could think to wind up, this was far from the first thing on her mind. It makes sense, though; she seemed to understand it as she looks up at the looming mansion, decorated with stained glass as her brow presses. She'd never been here before, but she knew this place. The distant mansion Cyran had done his best to ignore in the dream last night.

Where was Cyran?

The fabric twists around her again and suddenly, she's in a foyer of some kind, tables decorated with precious things. She starts to approach them, her smile fond-- there were things she recognized here-- but they are quickly whisked away by faceless servants, tidied and taken elsewhere. Del turns on the spot, frowning as she watches them go. That... didn't feel right. Certainly the whole placard on the wall didn't feel right, either. Her eyes linger on the portrait, and her frown deepens; something was going on, and whatever it was, it filled Del with a sense of dread. She takes a half step forward to start to follow them, when she hears soft footsteps approach, along with a familiar voice.

Hello, you.

As she turns, her expression lights up, with delight and... confusion. This was Cyran, she recognized him, but this was not a Cyran she was familiar with. One from a different time, a different place. He wore robes, a circlet. He looked like a facet of the moon itself. A little younger than he was now, but different. And no less precious.

That he did not recall her... stung a little, for reasons Del did not entirely understand-- but there was something there, something trying to remember. It was no fault of his, nothing he had done, but she wanted him to know her, to see her. An odd revelation. Cyran had mentioned something about this particular spell, that sometimes people didn't always remember when they woke up. Was that also true in the reverse?

"Cyran," Del whispers a little sigh of fond relief, "There's nothing to forgive, my Rogue." Del pauses for a beat, biting her lip. That was an odd little slip. Like she had no filter. Ohh, dreams were a dangerous place. Clearing her throat, she takes a step toward him, holding out her hand, for a shake. "I'm here to, ah, see you, actually. I'm a friend, and I'd like to help, if I can."

Del herself does not fully understand what she is saying or why she is saying it. Some subconcious response to the sterile facade around her-- this place screamed false, a shallow portraiture of how things should be, but it was all a cover for the truth. But she does want to help him, that was a sincere and honest feeling, that emanated from her. She gives him a gentle, crooked smile, her hand still held out in invitation. "I'm Delaela Asiliari. You can call me Del, if you like."

Wherever Del had found herself, it was obvious that this was not her Cyran, the one from her time. This figment of him - it was still stuck in this part of the past, wherever, or whenever this was. But that did not mean he was entirely unfamiliar to Del. There were still parts of him that she would be able to recognize. The way he tilted his head to the side while thinking, not unlike a curious owl, or the way his fingers came up to fiddle with a ring that was no longer there.

His mind may have been trapped here in this mansion, but even the deepest parts of his subconscious were still Cyran.

Silver eyes widened in surprise at the sound of his name leaving her lips. She even smiled as she saw him, like he was someone worth greeting with such familiarity. The thought was a foreign one. Most who ventured through these halls were here to visit Lormundel Fenastra, the patriarch of the marble, moon-touched mansion. Rarely did anyone bother with his meek son.

And… my Rogue? The way she said it implied some familiarity. But Cyran was hardly one that anyone would ever call a rogue. He was far from clumsy, but he’d lived a quiet life within these four walls. Not one filled with sneaking around and thieving and what have you. Hell, he’d never even raised a weapon against anyone in his life. This lovely lady must have mistaken him for someone else. But yet, she’d gotten his name right…

The answer was on the tip of his tongue - but in this foreign, dreamlike world, it did not come to him.

“A friend?” He repeated, voice soft. Her answer came in the form of a hand held out, as if waiting for him to shake. Cyran stared at the calloused palms before looking up at her face. There was no deviousness hidden behind those eyes. The molten amber seemed to hold all the warmth and care of a hearth, and in the pit of his chest, Cyran knew that she was telling the truth.

Behind Del, the placard seemed to shift, the swooping elvish script twisting and morphing until it read something entirely new:

Trust in Del.

She could not see what the placard said from her angle, but Cyran could. His head felt fuzzy, in this quiet place, with servants whose places he couldn’t see. Vaguely, there was some part of him that was entirely aware this wasn’t real.

How could it be, another part whispered, when an angel is standing right in front of you?

He supposed there was nothing left for him to do but follow the advice that he had left behind for himself.

“I am Cyran, though I see you already knew that.” He let out a huff of quiet laughter. “It is a pleasure to meet you, lady Asiliari.” He tried to wrack his brain, thinking of where he might have met her before. Perhaps at one of his mother’s galas? She had the elegant, refined look and all of the grace of one of the ladies that Cyrilla would have once attempted to set Cyran up with, before the union. Which only served to make her insistence that he call her by such a familiar name all the more confusing.

“Are you sure? That seems entirely too casual, don’t you think?” Cyran’s hand was soft in her own, lacking any of the callouses that Del remembered. Even more conspicuously was the silver band that rested on his ring finger. “I suppose if you insist that we know each other, then you’re comfortable making such an offer… but I insist, at the very least, you allow me to call you lady Del. It is only befitting to someone of your stature.”

Perhaps she didn’t truly bear any titles, or nobility of her own. But to him, she was a lady.

“But I’m not quite sure I understand.” His brows knit together, still unable to bring himself to let go of her hand. “What are you here to help me with, exactly?”

"I'm here to..." Del pauses for a moment, as though searching for the right words. How could she help him. "--help you get back what's yours. Things have been going missing, or getting misplaced, haven't they? Things you care about?" She squeezes his hand gently. "And help you leave this place. With me."

Help him leave? Cyran nearly flinched away from her touch, the way she held onto his hand. But she was not crushing his palm. Merely holding him steady, as if he were a ship adrift and she was acting as his anchor.

“I don’t…” He bit his lip. “Lady Del, I’m not trapped here. I can leave any time I want.”

Couldn't he?

... So why hadn't he already?

Behind Del, the placard changed once more.

Del will save you.

He suddenly withdrew his hand as if the contact with Del burned. This kindness, the gentleness, it felt too much to bear in that moment.

Del will save you.

Trust in Del.

Cyran glanced behind him, at the marble steps leading to the second floor. He hadn’t seen Rowan today, but he knew she was lingering just out of sight. They usually gave one another a wide berth, playing this elaborate dance through the manor, both hiding but neither seeking. That was how it had always been. That was all Cyran deserved. But the visit from this stranger felt bigger than him somehow. It disturbed the delicate equilibrium of this mansion.

And wherever trouble went, Rowan was sure to follow.

Cyran didn’t quite know why, but he couldn’t let that happen. Not to her. His eyes flicked momentarily towards the room that the servants had taken his things. Precious, treasured items that he could not quite remember but loved for reasons he was incapable of naming. That sentimentality didn’t belong here. That’s why Rowan had chosen to store everything away.

Was that what Del was talking about?

And why in the world did she care?

He was too scared to ask. But Cyran had to know, the question burning in his very soul, resonating with the part of himself that she held. He turned back to her, almost horror-stricken at the onslaught of emotions that threatened to tear his chest apart.

“Lady Del…” He swallowed. “What are you to me?”

Her brows lift slightly, lips pulling with amusement as Cyran says he could leave any time. Her hand touches a ring-- not hers, she thinks, she had seen that be whisked away by the shadow servants... but she had never seen Cyran wear a ring before. Though, didn't he often fiddle with his hand? Theres a quiet pang of dread in her chest, but she pushes it down, in favour of smiling at him. "Then will you come with me?"

There is no way for Del to see what moves and shifts behind her, but she watches Cyran's expression as he starts to... think. Comprehend. Her brow presses, as Cyran becomes suddenly furitive, worried, pulling his hand away from hers. Like he expected an attack-- but this was a Cyran with hands that were silken soft and unburdened by work. A noble's hands. He was a far cry from the steel-eyed man she knew, who could wade into battle with the intensity and confidence of a general commanding those at his side and dancing through combat like he was born to it. But he was still her Cyran. His expressions shifted in the same way, his head tipping at the same angle, the same errant strands of hair that found their way over his shoulder... the same moonlight eyes.

For whatever reason, he seemed scared in this moment. Nervous about something incoming. It made her feel all the more protective-- though his hushed question has her floored. What was she to him? That wasn't something she felt she could answer; she knew so much about Cyran, but she would never... assume, never speak for him. She bites her lip, thinking. What was something Cyran had said to her? Who was she to him?

At the very least, Del knew who she wanted to be.

"I am... your fighter." She says, softly. There's no way of knowing if that has meaning for this Cyran, but his terrified face fills her with a deep concern. She wants nothing more than to help him, to prove that she is here to help him. A thought occurs to her, and she hooks the necklace at her collar, to show him the ring he had given her on Hearth's Day, dangling off her thumb. A crooked smile appears on her face, as she holds out her hand once more. "I'm here."

Cyran does not respond - not for a long time. It is a difficult thing, to quantify the impact of only a few brief words. Perhaps he ought to have found it frustrating, this non-answer. But somehow, he understands what Del means, and it is all the more daunting.

He stares at the ring dangling from her neck and suddenly the one on his hand feels all wrong.

“Wait… this isn’t supposed to be here.” He murmurs, moving to grab the piece of jewelry off his hands - but the moment he tries to tug the band off, it grows tighter on his hand, unmoving. He grimaces, as if in pain… but even more overwhelming is the fear that overtakes him as he looks back up at Del.

“We need to get out of here.” He says as he reaches out to grab Del’s hand.

He doesn’t elaborate.

As it turns out, he doesn’t need to.

At the top of the stairs, a series of double doors swing open, revealing a pale, elven woman with hair as dark as pitch, and sunken eyes that regard everything around her disdainfully. Her wine-red dress spills over the stairs as she descends, heels clicking, echoing through the silence.

Rowan Pavyre’s leer is concealed behind a paper-thin smile. “Cyran, you didn’t tell me we were having guests. Welcome to our home, Miss…”

The words feel more like a threat than a greeting.

A scowl forms over Del's face as she steps in front of Cyran while this... woman descends the stairs. Speaking to him with such familiarity, with such derision, Del can't help but bristle. Hearing the words 'our home', sheputs the situation together and stands poised, quietly fuming, trying not to let it cloud her thoughts.

She remembers thigs, conversations; That he left Moonglade, that he did not wish to go back. And yet, he was brought here every night to be in the presence of this woman who made her skin crawl? A flicker of gold shimmers in the crack of the bridge of her nose as she faces off against this hollow-eyed woman, frowning heavily. "I don't answer to you and nor does he. I'm taking him out of here." She gave no indication that she was asking.

“Oh?” Rowan’s dead eyes dance with mirth, a playground for the undead. She herself ranks among them - but here, in this dream… this is her domain. This is where Rowan Pavyre still truly lives. She does not take kindly to intruders.

“You must be the woman Cyran is so fond of.” She states, dropping the act of a kind hostess. Her nails drag along the dark wooden banister. “I remember you. The one he went and foolishly bound himself to.” She sighs. “Oh, well. You’re just another complication that will be dealt with soon enough, I suppose. Go on, then. You can try to take him out of here. It’s not as if he can actually leave.”

Del's anger flares-- not at being called a complication, or that she would be 'dealt with' soon enough, but at hearing that he could not leave. "And that's your doing." It's less a question than it is a statement, but Del does take one step forward, putting her foot on the bottom step of the staircase.

Rowan appears nonplussed at the threat. For a moment, she disregards Del entirely - her gaze returns to Cyran, the foolish man to whom she was still bound. “Less my doing and more happenstance.” The answer, though spoken in the same haughty tone, is the truth. She looks down at her hand, examining dainty, clawed fingers - one of which is adorned with the matching pair to Cyran’s own ring. “Though I’ll be damned if I don’t make use of it.”

It’s unclear whether she is talking about the dream, or her presence here at all.

“After all, he’s useful to me.”

Del's anger boils over in that moment. Gold flashes across the bridge of her nose with molten heat-- the audacity, the lack of care, the horrid woman who he shared a ring and a home with, and she didn't deserve one single iota of his time, his energy, his presence. "Cyran. Belongs. To himself." She growls.

Del releases Cyran's hand as she launches up the stairs at the woman, vaulting her off the step in a bound as she lashed out, pivoting with her elbow to try to connect with her temple.

“Del!” Cyran’s cry punctuates Del’s sudden lunge for the pale elven woman, aiming a blow right for Rowan’s temple. The blow would have struck true with uncanny accuracy, if Rowan did not disappear with a wane smile, reappearing at the top of the steps with an incurably smug look on her face. As if she’d already won the battle.

Cyran darts up the steps after Del, reaching out to grab her. “Lady Del, please, it’s - it’s not worth it.”

The blow passes through air, and Del lands awkwardly, unspent momentum making her land a little rougher than she had meant to. Tricky tyrant. She bears her teeth at Rowan and looks back at Cyran, her stubborn resolve softening just slightly. If anyone could convince her, it would be Cyran. She gives him an almost pleading look, her face terribly raw and sincere. "You are worth it."

“Yes, dear.” Rowan taunts, hiding a laugh behind her hand. “Why don’t you listen to him? It’s not as if you can strike me in my own home, anyways.”

--and then the witch says that. Her expression hardens again as she turns to glare up at her. Challenge accepted.

As Del ascends the stairs, this time marching, to reach Rowan. "This is Cyran's mind, Cyran's place, and you are the one who doesn't belong." As she stalks upward, her hands start to burn cold, a sensation Del barely registers, but with it comes a foreboding, daunting aura. "Whatever you think you have or own here, what you are is a damn parasite, a festering infection that needs to be removed."

The shadows seem to grow darker around Rowan, her very person dripping with malice. “I think, my dear,” She utters, “You’re the festering infection here, one that needs to be nipped in the bud before it can cause more trouble.”

With those final words, she raises a hand, moving to strike Del with all the prim fury of a noblewoman’s scorn.

Del's hand flies up, catching Rowan's wrist in her palm with a smack-- but it sounds like, skin striking metal, a dull thud.[1, 2] It's burning cold, an iron grip that sears and consecrates and promises ruination.[3]

Rowan's eyes widen as she stares at the wrought-iron death grip Del holds her in, strong enough to break her wrist. In that moment, she comes to a realization - this is not her realm. Right now, this place belongs to Del. And that stings more than any punch that will surely be sent her way.

Del blinks in surprise at the sudden change in the tone of the dream, the shifting look on Rowan's face and slides a glance to where her hand grips Rowan's wrist, the scent of ozone and iron permeating the air. This... was new. It also meant she could touch Rowan. That she couldn't escape.

There's the smallest smile on Del's face for an instant, before she steps forward and tilts her head, bringing the hardest part of her crown down onto the bridge of Rowan's nose and sending her sprawling, the cold iron damage impacting there as well.

"If I can't take him from here," She intones, her voice low and threatening as she looms over the woman, her expression as cold and livid her cold iron hands, "Then mark my words, I will find a way to rid him of you." Her head bows a little lower, and the gold flares across the bridge of her nose again. How dare she. How dare anyone cause him such pain and harm. How dare she turn his dreams into this constant misery.

How dare she be there first.

"I am not 'your dear'. And nor. Is. He."

---

[1,2]] Iron Grip/Float like a Butterfly (hit prevention)
[3] Delaela's Cold Iron Touch

Then will you come with me?

I’m your fighter.

Lady Del’s words only served to confuse Cyran further, further the cracks of this fractured mind, widen the rift between the dream construct and the waking self. Every fiber of his being wanted to go with her for reasons he couldn’t understand, and that made Cyran feel horribly selfish. He hadn’t been lying when he told Lady Del he wasn’t trapped here. This place - as awful and cruel as it was, it was his only tie to Marlow. Even as horrible as everything was, he knew that she made enduring all of this worth it.

… But she isn’t really here, is she?

She’s not waiting for you.

You’re just holding onto a figment of her.

He closed his eyes and saw that night right before Winter’s Crown, in the snow-capped streets of Starlight City where he heard her name leave someone else’s lips for the first time in years. Where he learned that she was more than just a fragmented memory of his, an ideal to cling to. She was doing just fine without him - all these years spent dreaming of her, clinging to the hope that they would even reunite one day… and he still couldn’t bring himself to accept that she hadn’t been dreaming of him, too.

He didn’t get the chance to answer Del’s question, though, not when Rowan finally made her presence known. She was always there, of course. Lingering. Watching. Rarely did she feel the need to intervene, unless her asset was under threat - or when something posed a threat to her. Even in death, Rowan had never quite given up her station, held herself like a woman of means, who deserved all she had and more. Her tether to Cyran, though not what she’d intended to happen, was a fortunate opportunity for her. She had always been a rather shrewd opportunist, even in life, with an ambition that perhaps outweighed sensibility sometimes. She would take advantage of every single opportunity granted to her.

And things had been progressing nicely, until Cyran started making connections again. She thought it was harmless… a couple of strays here, some friends and acquaintances there. Cyran loved them, but he couldn’t bring himself to trust them fully. None of them had gotten close enough to break through Cyran’s barriers, and she wasn’t about to stand by and let this woman come in and soften her weapon.

She knew Del’s name, of course, even as she asked it. But it was all about the power play, to make Del feel unwelcome in her own home. Perhaps if she drove Delaela Asiliari away, the woman would realize that Cyran wasn’t worth all the trouble after all.

She’d underestimated the power of their bond. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to call it their love for one another. Rowan had never experienced such a detestable emotion in her life, but she wasn’t blind. The carpenter’s scars blazed a brilliant gold with the promise of murder in her eyes and fiery passion with her voice, and Rowan realized exactly why Cyran would care for such a woman. He’d always been rather soft. It was only natural he would yearn for someone to save him.

Rowan couldn’t have that.

She ducked away from Del’s first punch, reappearing a couple of feet away with a haughty laugh. Cyran finally came back to himself, running after Lady Del. Why was she doing all of this? What in the world would cause her to speak with such sincerity, as if she genuinely believed he was worth all that trouble? All at once Cyran felt rather small, weak. All at once he realized that wasn’t a bad thing.

Del blazed forward, but Cyran couldn’t bring himself to step back or shy away from her brilliance. Not even as she blocked Rowan’s backhand with wrought-iron fury and cold anger, before rearing her head back and plowing it right into Rowan’s nose.

The sickening CRACK echoed through the air as Rowan staggered back. No blood flowed from the ghostly woman’s broken appendage, though her eyes glowed a deep, crimson head, her inky-black hair flowing in the air behind her in her anger.

“You bitch!” The expletive slipped through her lips before she could compose herself. Rowan straightened, snapping her fingers - without so much as a word, nameless servants poured out from nowhere, surrounding her on either side. As Rowan smoothed her skirts, the smile didn’t return to her face. The time for games was over. “You can’t remove me from my own home. But I think you’ve overstayed your welcome, Delaela Asiliari.” She spat the name like poison.

In the bottom of her heart, she knew that there was nothing that she could do against the woman who had wandered into this dream. Del was the lord of this manor right now - she held the key to controlling the dream. But she didn’t seem conscious of that fact yet. Rowan had to get her out of here before she wizened up to her control of this realm.

As she focused on the woman in front of her, though, she forgot about the man in the shadows.

“Rowan, stop this.” The air seemed to grow darker around Cyran without his notice, clinging to him like a wedding veil as he took his place by Del’s side. “… Just let us go, okay?”

But Rowan could only stand there, mouth agape. Oh, of course! She’d been going about this all wrong!

If Rowan wanted Cyran to foster his power, she didn’t need to deprive him of the things that he loved. She just needed to make sure that he grew closer to them. Cyran had the soul of a killer, but the heart of a protector. He would do anything to protect those he loved… even give further into the darkness.

Only then, once his power was cultivated like the finest ash roses, would Rowan be able to flourish.

“You’re free to leave whenever you want.” Rowan decided after a moment’s thought, waving her hand - all at once, the guards stepped back, no longer ready to escort Del off the premises. It was impossible to tell what revelation she’d had to change her mind from reading her face, but all of her hatred had disappeared, replaced with the same polite demeanor she’d worn before with all the grace and beauty of an ill-fitting dress.

“After all, I’m not the one keeping you in here.”

Cyran pursed his lips.

“I know.”

He turned to Lady Del, the woman he knew so intimately, yet still could not remember. “… This isn’t real, is it?” He asked, flashing her a sad smile. “You know, I used to dream about a warrior saving me from this place. Wishful thinking on my part.”

He’d simply fallen, instead.

He reached out and grabbed her wrist, a gentle touch. “But you’ve given me that today, at least. I don’t know if I can leave. Not yet. But at least… don’t leave me alone. Please.” The last part was spoken in a quiet whisper, as if he still couldn’t believe that she would want to be by his side like this. But she hadn’t left yet.

“At the very least, permit me to show you the gardens until I wake up, Lady Del?”

Del's brows arch slightly as the woman, with her broken nose and her snarling mouth, makes her intentions clear. Was she prepared to fight these shadowy servants? If she had to. If it was for Cyran, to help him the way he helped her, she could. She knew she would. Her gaze levels at Rowan, her expression thoroughly unimpressed. "You cannot begin to comprehend the level of bitch that I am capable of. This isn't your home. Try me."

Of course, Del could not know that this was her own domain at the moment-- her words were driven, inspired by Cyran and caring for him, first and foremost. And it was Cyran, the only one in all of Charon who could stop Del on her forward path, who changed the tone. Her eyes drift to him as he comes to stand beside her, a smile morphing on her features that is gentle and admiring. Shadows drift from him like a mantle, a measure of the man she was more familiar with infusing the one she had met within the dream. Hello, you.

Rowans expression, by contrast, fills Del with a little vindictive thrill. She was aghast, shocked by the development-- Del felt so proud of Cyran for standing here, by her side, a task that she knew had to be incredibly hard on him given what she had seen so far. Maybe, hopefully, she had made it just a bit easier.

Though the change of tune of the pale woman is... alarming. It sets off Del's instinct to be wary, to be very careful indeed, but there is no way to know the woman's plans or why she changed her mind so quickly. Did Cyran truly banish her? Was she simply trying to save face? It was impossible to tell, and though Del was concerned about this abrupt about-face, Rowan-- that is her name, Del learns, as Cyran addressed her-- that she cared much, much more about the man who's dream she was in.

Del turns her focus onto Cyran entirely, and gives him a soft smile. "I think it's as real as you want it to be. I am real, though, and everything I said before was true. I'm just visiting your dream from the world we, ah, both come from." How to describe the difference between a waking world and a dream world to someone in the midst of a dream? Best to just... let that go, probably. But she wanted to reassure him that some of these things, upon waking would continue to be true. That he mattered; that Del would go to the ends of Charon for him; that she was his fighter.

She looks down at where Cyran takes her wrist, and feels her heart ache. His touch is so gentle, as if he is seeking out her contact. Asking her, in whisper soft tones, to not leave him alone.

Stay. Whispers a familiar part of her mind.

"I'm not going anywhere," She whispers back. "I remain at your side. Just one thing before we do, though, if I may?" She steps forward to wrap Cyran lightly in a loose embrace, hugging him close so she could impart, hopefully, some sort of recognition that Cyran was loved, he was needed, he was appreciated. He was adored.

It is a lot to say within the confines of a hug, but she can almost sense Cyran's need to be near her. She wants to give him that, if nothing else.

"Alright..." Covering his hand with hers, Del shifts their arms and links them together. Her smile is warm and welcoming, little gold blossoms trailing off her hair and around her, like a little snow storm of petals. "I would love to see the gardens."

Even without his memories, suspended in the realm between fiction and reality, Cyran still possessed some of his old wisdom, dull as that blade may be. As Del spoke, something seemed to click inside of his mind - whether it was the way everything seemed to move as if covered in fine cloth, or because Del was the only thing that felt real here, even moreso than himself. But he understood, even where she could not properly explain.^[1]

“Ah, so it’s like that then.” He hummed, turning to look back at the family portrait. He could remember when that piece was commissioned with startling clarity. They’d sat for hours, Marlow squirming in Rowan’s lap, and Rowan holding back curses on her tongue for the impertinent child. With the veil that seemed to conceal it, it was difficult to tell what their faces looked like, but it wasn’t as if Del was missing much. All that labor, hours of sitting still, and not a single model had been painted with a smile. “I had a sneaking suspicion in the back of my mind that something wasn’t right, but I was too grateful to think too deeply about the fact that fairy tales don’t happen to killers.”

The last word flew out of his mouth before he could think too deeply about what he was saying. The Cyran of this time had never murdered someone - never felt the weight of taking a life with his own two hands. But his own soul knew better than he did what he was.

“But that’s okay.” He continued on after a pregnant pause. “Even if this isn’t what happened in the waking world, you’re still real. And you came here to help me. That means something.” His voice broke apart at the edges, a split geode that glittered with tantalizing fragility on the inside. “It means something, right?”

It had to. Del had ventured through his dream for whatever reason, lingered in his mind scape and even banished Rowan for the time being. And now she was even honoring his request to stay. She was even… speaking to him with such kind and patient words that the encounter from earlier felt distant. It was hard to believe that such a powerful, assured woman would look at him with such love.

And then he was wrapped into a tight hug.

Cyran stiffened in her arms - was she about to throttle him, or squeeze the air out of his lungs? But no, this wasn’t… a lesson, or some sort of punishment. This was an embrace, a warmth in her chest pressed against his that seemed to softly pulsate, as if reminding him that everything would be okay. That she would protect him if anything else went awry. With hesitant movements, he returned the hug, with all the warmth and none of the experience of the Cyran she remembered. An awkward embrace, from a man who had grown up learning that kindness was a slap on the wrist and love was a business arrangement. And yet, all that affection still stubbornly persisted inside of him, even if he didn’t properly know how to use it.

“… This is fine.” He whispered.

He mourned the loss of Del’s departure, though delighted at the prospect of showing Del around the grounds. He offered her his arm, the way a gentlemen ought to. “Right, then shall we - oh! Your hair, it’s…” Instinct guided him to pluck one of the petals from her rampant curls, pressing it ever-so-slightly between his finger pads to test how soft it was.

“Beautiful.”

Ah, had he said that out loud? Cyran cleared his throat, beckoning Del outside. “Right, I’ll show you around.”

The petal was tucked in his tunic pocket before he moved to open the double doors.

The vast grounds outside the manor were well-tended to, even in the Dreamscape. A moon-white marble fountain was surrounded by a well-maintained path of pebbles and crushed seashells. The night sky glimmered, a tapestry of stories interwoven in the twinkling stars. Andromeda seemed to glow brighter than the others. Cyran’s gaze lingered up in the sky as he led Del around at an unhurried pace, allowing her to see everything.

“I have not always loved this home, but I have always held a special fondness for these gardens. I would take lessons out here in the night whenever my father would allow me.”

It was not often, but they were sweet memories nonetheless.

“It’s funny, actually. I’m told I was born out here.” The story was that his mother, taking her tea outside, had finally gone into labor as the sun began to set. It was too difficult for them to move her inside - she was too far along. Even from birth he’d been an outsider to this home. “It was dusk. There was a meteor shower that night, I think. Mother always told the story… not fondly, but as a good memory. That at least she had a view while she was in pain.”

He bit his lip as he realized that he’d been chattering away for too long. Del wasn’t here for him - she’d followed him here to see the gardens! He moved to flatten his robe with his free hand, a nervous habit that had yet to be broken.

“But enough of me talking. We can just enjoy the gardens, for as long as we are both here.”

And those brief moments would be blissful ones, spent in the peace of a companion. But once he relaxed, it would not take long for the edges of the dream to blur, the colors fading from flowers and stars falling from the sky. Just as he’d found a small sliver of happiness, the world saw fit to rip it from his hands.

Just as well, he supposed. Good things were never meant to last long for someone like him.

---

Warmth.

It almost felt like a furnace, lit by caring hands to ensure that he would never go cold. And here, in her arms, he wouldn’t.

That was a wonderful feeling.

One that lasted all of two seconds before the events of last night’s dream flooded back to him, and Cyran’s eyes snapped open. Somewhere in the middle of the night he and Del had drifted together again. And she’d managed to cast his spell -

She’d seen -

“Oh, gods.” Cyran murmured, mortification seeping into him. Not only had Del seen Rowan, but she’d headbutted the woman! And Cyran had been nothing more than some wilting maiden, who couldn’t even speak for himself. Despite everything she’d seen, she’d still leapt in like she truly wanted to help him.

He wasn’t sure if Del was still awake or not. But in the quiet of these first few moments of daylight, the calm before the storm, he held her tight, refusing to let go. Returning a comfort that had been granted to him.

“I’m sorry you had to see that.”

---

1. Expanded Mind (Astral Soul I)

That fairy-tales didn't happen to killers? Del furrows her brow a little-- there was a lot to unpack in that sentence, but as she gazes at him as he talks, struggles with the weight of his words, she gives the arm linked through hers a squeeze, hugging it to her chest. It is difficult to explain why that affects her so; her heart goes out to him, a swelling sensation as if it was trying to leave the confines of her ribs to quite literally get to him. To try and seal the crack in his voice with... something. Anything to help brace him, protect him, keep him whole.

But oh, how beautiful the gems beneath the cracks. Perhaps the best thing she could do, instead of try to cover up those fragile moments was to simply... appreciate them. Acknowledge the vulnerability and praise it for the precious, rare, wonderful thing it was.

"It means something." Her words echo his, soft and confirming. "If this were in the waking world, my actions would be no different, Cyran. You are important. You deserve to be happy."

Her expression shifts to a surprised blink as Cyran's hand goes to her hair, to pull one of the little golden flowers from her hair, delicately holding a gold-leaf petal between his fingers. Admiring it. Beautiful? Even in the dream, Del can tell she is blushing from head to toe. She ducks her head, suddenly demure, unsure of what to say. Though he quickly shifts the subject, more little petals decidedly bloom and scatter in their wake.

The gardens of his dream were beautiful. Stunning, well tended, and sprawling. White marble beneath the stars, as if constructed itself out of starlight. This felt like the heart of Cyran, in a way; part of him that was wholly him, not tainted by memories of her, a place of love-- things he loved, memories he loved, moments he cherished. The stars above their heads twinkle, a somber but merry light. Defiant of the wicked world below.

She giggles, hearing about his little stories of himself. It's a joy to learn about him, listen as he shares. She had no such memories to contribute, but she cherished his as if they were her own. He lights up as he talks, the memories moving fluidly across his features.

Quite a view indeed.

"The gardens are beautiful," she can't help but smile, looking around them. Del reaches out a hand to lightly brush against a bloom, before looking back at Cyran. "I can see why you'd want to study out here. You have a perfect view of the stars." He did so love stars.

He seems to hide in that moment, pulling away a little, as if realizing his own exposure. But he wants to show her the gardens... There isn't much time left, she can feel the dream unravelling at the corners. And as it was in the real world, it's difficult to find the right words here, too. There's not enough time to assure him that she wants to hear about these things, learn about his world.

But she wants to do right by him. The best she can do. She squeezes Cyran's arm again, a soft smile tugging on her lips. "You're going to be alright."

Those last few moments are wonderful regardless. Full of an ease of mind and heart, as she absorbs the incredible world around them. Then, the dream begins to fade-- too soon, too soon-- and Del finds herself drifting once more, in the sweet embrace of sleep.

---

Waking like this could not possibly be any more otherworldly. For a few moments as she stirs, Del could almost convince herself that this was the dream; Cyran's cool skin against her forehead, where it rested, once again, in the crook between his neck and shoulder. At some point during the night, he had rolled over to face her, and now, as the night before, the pair found themselves wrapped in the other's embrace.

As she fully wakens, there's a moment of panic-- once again invading his personal space, how uncouth-- that is fully quashed as his arms tighten around her, in a fierce hug.

Emotions tinge his words, brush the back of her mind with their complicated flow. He held fast to her, though, not taking anything further from her, but trying to... give back. Who was she to deny him that?

Her eyes flutter closed again as she allows herself this moment. It felt forbidden, like she didn't deserve it. There had been a lot of revelations last night. There's a twinge of jealousy that reminds her of her and her presence tehre, and the silver ring on his finger.

He didn't wear a ring.

Except for yours, a voice in the back of her mind whispers.

Del shivers at the thought and pushes it aside.

Her arms delicately tighten around him to return the hug. Forbidden and beyond what she deserved it might be, but she would not leave Cyran adrift in the wake of these revelations. "You have nothing to apologse for," she murmurs, still a little groggy from sleep. "I should be the one to apologise-- you've been through so much. I'm sorry if I, ah, disrupted your sleep at all."

She did headbutt someone he was-- had been?-- married to, after all.

Taking a breath, Del lift her head to give Cyran a sheepish smile, opening her eyes to look at him with a little gentle concern. "Are you alright?"

“You could never disrupt my sleep.” Cyran assured her. “Though, ah, it was a bit of a shock to dream once more. I don’t usually… do that. Perhaps your presence triggered the appearance of my dreamscape?” Even just waking up, his mind seemed to be reeling from the possibilities that the spell presented. He hadn’t even thought it was possible for anyone to use it on him… much less Del. How did she even use it? He wasn’t aware she was capable of casting magic.

But he was.

Perhaps they shared more through those rings than just emotions.

The thought of someone being able to draw from the well of darkness within him, that allowed him to force the shadows under his command, was a daunting one. Cyran himself didn’t even like possessing such a weapon. But Del wasn’t the kind of person who coveted such things, nor did she hunger for power the way Rowan did. If there was anyone who he could trust to have that bit of him, it was her. She used his power so gently, after all. To walk into his dreams and save him from the ghost of a woman who refused to leave.

Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Del’s lips moving. She was saying something. Asking him a question.

“Ah.” He tried not to sound too stiff as he pulled himself to a sitting position. He lamented the loss of the warmth, but if he didn’t force himself out now, he might never want to leave. Sharing a bed with Del was something they had to do out of necessity. He couldn’t allow himself to want more. “I’m fine. Rowan is… well, um.”

How to explain Rowan Pavyre? There were many words Cyran could have offered. That she was once a wealthy noblewoman, raised in a cushy home where she was never told no, and that entitlement made her dangerous. Perhaps he could describe her sociopathic nature, the way she didn’t seem to care about the lives she’d once taken and cruelly experimented on to further her research. She was the reaper and the hanged man all at once, a martyr for the sake of her pursuit of untold magic. And somewhere along the line, she’d burrowed within Cyran, and he could no longer get rid of her.

“She is a woman who died long ago, and never learned to stay dead. Now she persists, apparently, in the dark of my dreams.”

He huffed out a little laugh.

“I suppose it’s a good thing I don’t dream all that often then, no?”

The joke seemed to fall flat as it hung in the air.

“… Thank you for headbutting her, though. I never thought I’d see the day she was humbled so thoroughly.” As she could probably tell by now, he lacked the courage to do so himself. “It truly was a sight to behold.”

A beautiful one, if he had to pick a word for it. That was just what Del was like. Strong, sexy -

What?

He shook this head, pushing that stray thought away. His mind was just muddled after that rendez-vous in the closet yesterday. He truly had to stop thinking about that.

“… Are you alright, though? I understand that must have been taxing on you. If you’re tired, I can meet the Zironas myself today.”

While they were out of leads and without any idea of where to look next, the only objective on their docket today was to get closer to the couple they were meant to protect from harm and gain their trust. With any luck, they’d be able to glean why the assassins were here… and if they couldn’t stop the hitman, perhaps they could find an angle to stray his killing blow. It wasn’t much, but they needed to keep their options open if they wanted to catch this killer.

His gaze softened. Here in the quiet of their room, he still felt safe enough to relax. “Truly. I am sorry that you were put in that position. I know that place isn’t pleasant. I know this place isn’t pleasant. I am endlessly grateful to have you by my side, but it’s okay for you to take a break if you need as well.”

"You don't usually dream?" Her voice remains hushed, as though afraid of startling the moment. Del could hardly venture a guess as to why and how Cyran's dream had appeared for her, if that was the case. Perhaps it was the spell itself? In either case, Del knew she had done it intentionally, reached out to him with his own magic the way she had reached out when they fought the dragon in the desert, his abilities flowing through her like a mountain river; strong, fast, sure and undeniably Cyran's.

As he shifts to sit up, Del lets him go quickly, releasing him as she just then realizes the tenderness of holding him like that in a shared bed. But she doesn't want to relinquish this intimate peace that seemed to exist in this space. She also sits, drawing her legs up to her chest and making a pillow out of her arms as they rest across her knees. To listen to him, both when he speaks and in his silence.

Her brows lift. Oh. So that Rowan woman was... dead?

Internally, she chastises herself for the twinge of elation that rears its head, learning that. How ugly, to be jealous of a dead woman, especially a dead woman that was as terrible as that. Cyran never utters the word 'wife' but she knows; there were rings on both their fingers. But, as Del listens to him talk... she doesn't think that he is avoiding the word on purpose. It's strange, to understand the hidden meaning behind his words, even if it was intangible and speculative at best, going purely off their connection. Perhaps... because he didn't consider her his wife?

Del could hardly blame him, if that was the case. The woman truly had been horrible.

"I don't know if 'good' is the right word, but if it makes your sleep all the more restful, then I think it's not bad, per se," she gives him a crooked smile at his little non-joke. Though it isn't long before it evaporates again, a little astonished by his compliment. A beat later, she laughs, a quiet bark of a sound. Of all the things she could have thought he might appreciate, she didn't think that brutish, crude action would be even remotely on the list. She relaxes a little more, giving him a rueful smile. "She certainly comes across as someone who isn't used to hearing the word 'no'. I'd do it again in an instant. I can't possibly know the whole story, but it sounds like she decided to hitch a ride with you and that... it's terrible." She finds herself frowning heavily at the thought. "You deserve so much better than that. I'm sorry I wasn't able to help more than that."

Though, there was always next time...

Cyran's mention of him meeting the Zirona's alone today has Del furrow her brow a little further. She tips to one side, bumping her shoulder against his, an apparent gesture of affectionate defiance. "I'm not going anywhere, Cyran. We--" she takes a breath, trying to pause to find the right word, and coming up short with the only one that made any sense; the only one that truly resonated. "--we're partners. In this. I managed to get rest, I am in good condition and more importantly, I... I want to. Be there with you. I will not be taking a break. Not unless you also take one?" Her brow arches as she looks up at him with a wry lilt to her lips. teasing and challenging all in one. "You know, you run yourself pretty ragged regularly. I think if you wanted to take a break, that would be an excellent reason to do so."

Cyran shook his head.

“I haven’t, in nearly ten years. Not since, um.” Well, not since he’d been exiled. “That life.”

There wasn’t much he knew about the origin of his magic, if he were being honest. Contrary to what others might think, he hadn’t been born with it. But whatever Rowan, or the creature she’d become towards the end, had done to him - it had irrevocably changed him. No longer quite living, not quite dead. Somewhere in the middle… a creature of the shadows. They favored him, in some ways, but cursed him in others. Though the fact that Del had managed to trigger one in him was fascinating.

“I suppose in theory I would have a dreamscape, just like anyone else. But I myself cannot find it…” Fascinating. That was an inquiry for later, when all was said and done. He instead focused on Rowan, assuring Del that she was well and truly gone. He wasn’t quite sure why it mattered to him so much that she knew Rowan was dead, though it did. He hadn’t wanted her to know about the woman’s existence in the first place - not because he didn’t trust her, but because of the shame her memory brought him. They were not in love, more akin to strangers inhabiting the same space, though he still felt like her blood was on his hands.

“Ah, there’s no need to apologize. You helped more than you could know.” He assured her. “You reminded me that she doesn’t control my life. I may not know how to get rid of her…” Here, he grimaced, the rest of his phrase going unspoken - or if it is even safe for me to. “But I am not powerless. That person you met is not one I am especially proud of.” He couldn’t meet her gaze, electing to fiddle with the soft, silken sheets under his fingers. “Though it was nice to be treated with such gentility.”

The very same gentility she was looking at him with now, assuring him that it was okay if he could not continue today. Cyran merely held up his hand, shaking his head. “No, no. I am used to being tired. Besides, my rest was better with you in it. I will be fine to continue - we’ve got a meeting today, after all.” And he was the lie detector, here. This was his job - it was expected of him to push through his weariness.

Though her shoulder against his, her insistence that they were more than just friends on this ship, but partners, and that she would help him with the same, unwavering conviction, was enough of a comfort for him. He… believed her. Not just because he knew she was telling the truth - it was easy for someone to offer empty promises they believed. But he could tell through this strange bond of theirs that she meant it.

“Very well, then. I suppose we’ll just have to suffer through this meeting together, won’t we?” It would do them good to be near the Zironas anyways, he thought. With the killer on the loose, they could strike any moment. “I trust you.”

With great reluctance, he forced himself to stand, back muscles screaming as he did. Not from overuse, but merely age. Those pains would have to be attended to another time. He went through the motions of brushing out his hair, pressing out the day’s suit to rid it of any wrinkles. This was one of his finer pieces, a black piece with gold trim - but he had to look nicer today, for the socialization that was to come.

… Gods, he was going to have to work very hard to keep himself from getting blackout drunk tonight.