That life. The one she had seen in the dream. Before he had left it behind. She could see why, now. The manor was beautiful, but cold. Sterile. And if it was haunted by ghouls like that woman, then more the better that Cyran had left. It spoke volumes of his regret on the matter, that he was not proud of the person he had been, and lamented that life he'd had before.

"Well. You can't expect a flower to bloom where there's no nourishment. No water, no sun." She reasons, plucking at the blanket idly while they talk, enjoying the quietude of their intimate space more than she cared to admit. "Look at you now, how you've thrived; You just needed to be transplanted into better conditions. You can't grow roses in poisoned soil, after all."

Or, perhaps, night-blooming gardenias, that shimmered beneath the moon with their pale, velvety petals, not unlike that of a rose, but more fresh, more like linens and crisp florals that reminded her of his cologne-- why was she thinking about his cologne, again?

Del clears her throat. Gentility. Right. "I am glad I could, ah, be of help. And help you explore your Dreamscape. If you want to try it again, I would be happy to assist? It's sad you don't get the chance to dream as you ought to. I bet you'd have some pretty spectacular ones with that imagination of yours." Her head tilts a little from side to side, as if debating her next words. "For what it's worth... that younger you went through a lot, and survived. I think he would be very proud if he knew who you've become. I think you deserved far better than that."

Than her.

As Cyran acquiesces to her point, she cannot help the triumphant look that crosses her face. It fades when he makes that little admission, though; Trust. Something she did not deserve, perhaps, but something Del would nonetheless treasure. It was no small thing to give. "I trust you as well." She offers him a wobbly smile. "There's no one else I would rather bear the prattle of nobles with."

Indeed, he made it even more than bearable. She was, perhaps, enjoying this facade more than she ought to. But, then again... it certainly made for convincing acting.

Like the dressing room the night before.

She shoves that out of her mind. It was not the time for reminiscing, they needed to get ready. Be Elen. Elen wouldn't be hung up on that moment still, she slides out of bed as Cyran departs., groaning slightly at her own overtired muscles. Wearing heels was a nightmare, her legs were sore, and her back was sore. She settles on the floor to move through a series of stretches, waking up her muscles and easing the tendons around her joints into optimal flexibility, bending and extending her limbs and back with deliberate slowness. All while trying, very hard, not to look at Cyran while he brushes out his hair and presses his suit. It's so uniquely domestic. Elen and Illias felt all the more like a real couple as they went about their morning routine of getting ready for the day ahead. Strange that it felt so real, despite the fact that Elen and Illias did not exist. Strange that despite knowing that, it still felt natural.

Finishing up her morning routine of stretches and push-ups, Del freshens up in their water closet before putting together her outfit for the day. A dress to match his gold trim, a deep ebony with a low back, bedecked in golden, shimmering embroidered gold thread and crystal, to look like stars in the sky. This one, she had selected because it reminded her of Cyran, though why that mattered and why a dress of all things would be something he would even notice was a question she could not properly answer. But, it matched his outfit effortlessly.

"Oh, ah. Virion's jacket." Del turns towards Cyran, just remembering. "Are we all repaired on that front, or do you need more time before we meet up with them tonight? Speaking of, how handy are you at cards?"

The garden metaphor was a lovely sentiment - so were the words that came afterward. Cyran supposed it was true, from an objective standpoint. Despite it all, he’d survived. Fallen, but survived, and found freedom. Her words, on the other hand, brought forth a question he had never considered asking himself since his exile.

Would he be proud of who he’d become?

It was a difficult question to ask. Cyran closed his mind, remembering the soft man that had lived in that mansion, a wisp of a person with no will of his own. Oh, he’d gone down a darker path, but he had something that man didn’t. The freedom to see the world to make his own decisions, go wherever he pleased. That young man might look at Cyran in awe, ignore the daggers at Cyran’s waist and the blood in his hands and whisper in awe, “You escaped them?”

And Cyran wouldn’t have the heart to tell him the price of that freedom.

“I’m not sure if proud is necessarily the right word.” He murmured. Cyran was not the kindest person, nor was he a paragon of morality. He took dirty jobs wherever he could, lived contract to contract. In escaping a life where he’d been nothing but a tool for his family’s success and propagation, he’d forged another one in the only way he knew how. A noble in an arranged marriage to a silent assassin with no will of his own. It was… not the existence that young man had likely imagined for himself.

But he was alive, and he would no longer allow himself to be taken advantage of in the same way again.

“But he would understand what I’ve had to do.” What he’d had to become.

Cyran pushed those thoughts aside in favor of letting out a weak laugh. “And there will be plenty more prattle today.” He anticipated that there would be plenty of nerves after the prior evening’s hubbub. He went about getting ready while Del stretched out her morning soreness in the corner, something he… respectfully averted his gaze from. Every time his eyes drifted over to her workout, the stretching and the push-ups, he couldn’t help but remember Del head butting Rowan…

Lunala, what’s wrong with me? I need to get my head in the game.

Case in point - Cyran had forgotten Virion’s jacket entirely until Del brought it up. The assassin shook his head as if to repel the morning’s thoughts - the distractions, the vulnerabilities - out of his mind before turning to grab the coat off of the hanger. The stain was still present in the dark fabric, stiff to the touch where Cyran ran his thumb over the material. “Let me clean this while you’re still getting ready-“

He turned, and his mouth suddenly went dry.

A gossamer dress, adorned in shimmering nighttime stars. The accents complemented the gold trim of his suit - a perfect match.

“Uh.”

Gods, what was wrong with him today? Cyran cleared his throat, moving to grab a washbin and fill it with soapy water before he could examine that particular reaction too closely. It took some time, and a substantial amount of soap and elbow grease, but the jacket looked as good as new. With deft hands, he summoned Nothing to his hand, slicing out a tiny sliver of fabric from the inseam. The task complete, he turned to Del.

“There. It should be presentable enough for him.” He said with a small, but proud, smile on his face. “And it’s a mixed bag on cards - I’m good at spotting lies and bluffs, not telling them.” His natural perception, and the insight rune, made him near-infallible at spotting lies. He would never put complete faith in his abilities, though he would do decent enough against a handful of nobles whose only experience lying was from a position of privilege.

“It shall be serviceable for tonight’s events, though.”

It would have to be.

"I hope that younger version of you could come to be proud of who you are now, then." She gives him a firm look, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly. For her part, she was certainly proud of him, how far he had come between then and now.

She sits on the bed, attaching earrings to her ears as Del watches Cyran take to the fabric of Virion's jacket with a singular focus she found nothing short of admirable. Her expression melts into something lovelorn without her knowing, a wistful smile playing her lips as she watches Cyran, his suit jacket off to the side, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up on sinuous forearms, as he cleans the stain out of the jacket. The way the sheaf of his dark hair shifts around the side of his head. How the shirt shifts around his back muscles. How his hips--

Del claps a hand to the side of her own face, stunning her out of the train of thought. She blinks at herself, face darkening quickly out of both surprise and embarrassment. Her expression turns sheepish as she looks back over to Cyran. "Ahem. I thought I felt. A bug."

On a boat. In the middle of the ocean.

She clears her throat again, and stands, coming over to inspect the garment, her smile more natural. "I think it looks almost good as new. Once it's fully dry, I doubt he'll be able to tell. Good work."

Reluctantly, she pulls her high heels on and stands, flexing her feet back and forth to get used to the movement again. "I'm not exactly a fair hand, either. Maybe us losing will help bolster his confidence some, and loosen up his tongue." She approaches Cyran again, only to wobble a few steps, and staggering into him. Her hands come up to steady herself on his shoulders. Her breath stills in her throat, as she finds herself looking up into his eye. As close as they were in the closet last night.

Heat rushes through her body. "Ah. Sorry. Stumbled a moment there. Not used to the, ah. Length of the dress." She picks herself up off him and moves her hands to smooth his jacket and lapel, looking rather intently at what she was doing, and not his face, not those eyes, not now. Gods, why does she feel so winded, suddenly?

Elen. Be Elen. He's counting on you to make the most of this mission. As Del steps back, she offers Cyran a slight smile, and her arm. "Shall we?"

---

The day passes mostly uneventfully. The passengers on the boat are either still alarmed from the previous night's events or participating in illadvised levels of non-chalance. Illias and Elen were one such couple, by all accounts far more interested in whiling away their afternoon with little idle boat activities. Now, as the early afternoon began to drift into the middle, they found themselves once again in the ballroom, to scope out anyone they might recognize from the night before. Del had to admit; the dancing was good cover. It helped, she supposed, that she was certainly learning to enjoy herself. Cyran was the main reason for that-- he made the dance feel so effortless.

While he took a bit of time to do those rounds, checking exits and whatnot, Del waited at their table, playing with, but not yet drinking, from the glass of champagne she had picked off a servants tray. Her eyes drift over the dancers, marking individuals and memorizing faces, actions as best as she could, all while appearing to be intensely disinterested all the while.

If she had been more self-aware, Del wouldn't have been so surprised to be approached, looking as she did; a lonely, well-dressed woman, languishing under the weight of her own boredom, she must seem approachable by those who wished to exploit that.

"Excuse me, Miss?"

Del glances over, brows lifting slightly. A young man with chesnut brown hair, half-elven perhaps, stood by the table, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a large glass of wine. He flashes her a smile. "Forgive me, fair lady. I noticed you across the room, and thought you might welcome some company."

One of Del's brows arch slightly higher. "And you are...?"

"Ah, how rude of me. Forgive my manners," the young man bows slightly, an angle that is just slightly too shallow; not enough to be disrespectful, but just shallow enough to indicate what he thought her societal . He holds "I am Ser Tyron Flemming, a Knight of Duros in Sol City. And who may I have the great honour of being enchanted by this evening?"

She does not want to, but she does not wish to appear rude. Del delicately places her palm in his hand and offers a thin smile. "Elenithildin Mellora. A pleasure."

"Oh, I assure you, my lady; the pleasure is all mine." he bends to kiss her hand, his eyes never leaving her face. Del cannot help but allow a brief look of utter bewilderment cross her face. He clearly meant to make a scene of it, to press a slow and sultry kiss to the back of her hand, but she pulls her hand back after a split second of contact. Blech.

Tyron straightens once again, and gives her a smirk as he steps closer to her chair. Del feels herself bristle a little. What. Was this guy doing. "Would you care to dance? I noticed you watching the crowd."

Del gives the man a puzzled look, swirling the champagne flute in her hand for a moment, pretending to be thoughtful. Elen. Be Elen. Dust and ash, this was so strange... "That is... a kind offer, but I must decline. My, ah, my husband will be returning shortly."

"Oh, come now, my good lady," he simpers, leaning his hand on the table as he looms over her. A slight frown creases her forehead. "One dance won't hurt. And you've been sitting on your lonesome for ten minutes at least. How do you know he hasn't found a temporary partner of his own? Besides..." Tyron looks her up and down, a slow smile spreading across his face as he bites the corner of his lip. "It is such a shame to see a dress like that go unappreciated."

It was worth noting, for the record, that Cyran was adept at spotting lies - any lie, really. It was also worth noting, for related reasons, that as Del mentioned, in an off-handed, strained voice, that she’d thought she’d seen a bug. Coupled with the fact that he’d felt some odd emotions flickering through the bond, Del’s odd demeanor was enough to give Cyran pause. He wasn’t so dense that he couldn’t recognize the feelings of tension that were coursing through her. Was she… thinking about him? No, it must have been lingering feelings from that compromising position they’d found themselves in to save their skins earlier. Even if he was cognizant of the fact that she was still thinking of last night, it changed nothing. Del was a respected friend, and there was no need to risk compromising that just because they were both… uh.

“We shall.” Cyran wrapped his arm around hers, and the game began once more in earnest. He banished those stray desires from this morning, last night. Besides, it was just entirely likely he was confusing his own stray thoughts with Del’s. It didn’t change anything.

It didn’t change anything.

…

Until it did.

The evening brought about another dance. Nobles were ever so fond of their galas, and the Judeia seemed to constantly have balls and music of some sort for anyone who desired to mingle and dance. It was a good enough place for someone to hide, which meant it was a good place for Cyran and Del to investigate in search of anyone that didn’t belong. While they scoped out the area, they glided across the dance floor, each step poised and purposeful. Cyran hadn’t been trained in ballroom dancing the way Cyran once had been in another life, but it was obvious that she possessed catlike reflexes and effortless, strong grace. Besides, Cyran had always thought that the most important part of a dance partner was trust and understanding.

And he and Del possessed that in spades.

He wasn’t sure how long they danced together. Time seemed to meld together and blend, just him and her on the dance floor. Only after the music stopped for a brief pause did they decide to split and do a couple of rounds. Del waited back by the table she’d managed to grab for them while Cyran poked around. He eyed the servants distrustfully - if he were on his own, he’d find solace as a nameless, faceless member of the crowd. But as he made his way around, he noticed that there were almost no servants mulling around, and the ones that were seemed rather… nervous. Cyran stopped, grabbing one of the servants mulling about with a tray of hours d’ouvres by the shoulder.

The servant stopped, averting his gaze. He didn’t look Cyran in the eyes. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Sorry to disturb you,” Cyran murmured, “I just couldn’t help but notice how understaffed you look today. Is everything alright?”

“Begging your pardon, but I must be getting back to work.”

Cyran sighed. The last thing he wanted to do was intimidate some poor young man, but he needed answers. As the servant tried to get away, he sidestepped, blocking the man’s method of escape. “I don’t mean to push, but I happened to be one of the attendants of the play last night. My wife, as you could understand, is a bit nervous… any change in environment has her on edge right now. I just want to make sure everything’s okay.”

The young man’s eyes widened. “Ah, you were… I see.” He straightened. “I’m terribly sorry that you had to see that. Nasty business, that.”

Cyran tried for an easy smile, with a touch of affixed worry at the corners of his only visible eye. “It’s quite alright. But my wife, you see, she was beside herself this morning. She was too scared to leave the cabin. For her peace of mind, do you have anything that I could tell her just to ease her worries? Anything at all?”

“Well, you can assure your wife that everything is fine.”

Cyran’s shoulders tensed. A lie.

“Last night, the guards apprehended the criminal, where he is currently being thoroughly questioned.”

Another lie.

“… I see.” Cyran mumbled to himself, mind reeling a mile a minute. It was likely just a fib told to patrons to ease their worries and banish this uneasy feeling that had permeated the ship, but he was still on edge. “And what about the other servants? Is everything okay?”

“Just to be safe and make sure the would-be assassin had no accomplices, the staff has been thoroughly vetted.” That much seemed to be the truth - at the very least, the tension in the young man’s face seemed incredibly real. Cyran wondered exactly what kind of protective measures the ship was taking. “Rest assured, we will be back to our full capabilities once they’ve finished their security measures.”

“I see.” Cyran offered a small, relieved smile. “Thank you for your time.” He nodded, letting the servant get back to his duties. At least that answered one question… the ship hadn’t found the assassin, and their target in question most likely wasn’t hiding among the staff. Thoughtful, he slowly started making his way back to where Del was waiting for him.

Only to stop in his tracks.

Who was that? A well-dressed man, of elven descent, with a charming smile plastered on his face as he spoke with Del. Del was politely nodding along, her lips moving indicating that she was replying to whatever he was saying. And then, before Cyran’s eyes, he grabbed her hand and placed a kiss on the back of it with deliberate motions that made Cyran’s gut coil in disgust.

Why was he feeling like this? It wasn’t as if he was actually Del’s husband. She could speak with who she wished, really. And yet, watching this sleazy noble, Cyran could only muster anger. How dare this man try to speak to her, charm her as if he had any right to? How dare he fix her with that look, a married woman, and try to whisk her away?

Again, it was worth noting that Del was not actually married, but the semantics of that fact had been lost on Cyran at this point. He didn’t want to watch this sleazeball try to chat her up a second longer.

He wasn’t sure what possessed him as he breezed through the crowd, a flower plastered on his features. It was not confidence - Cyran was not a man who got angry often, and especially not unprovoked. Perhaps it was something more protective, for Del’s sake. Perhaps if he’d spent more time examining this feeling, he might even label it something as unsavory as jealousy - though that was an impossible prospect. Cyran had nothing to be jealous of. Del was not his wife.

But Elen was Illias’s.

Within seconds he was at Del’s side, staring at the young man with a glare frigid enough to freeze hell over. To Del, he pressed a loving kiss to her temple. “Elen, I hope I didn’t leave you waiting for me too long.”

“I’m sorry, who are you?” The young man’s voice was polite, though there was a hardened edge to his tone. Cyran’s shoulders tensed. How dare you speak as if you actually know her?

“Illias Mellora.” He said, not bothering to hold out his hand. Perhaps it was petty of him, but he didn’t much feel like reacting with manners. With all the smoothness of a doting husband, with something sharper in his tone, he reached out for her hand. “I think the next song is starting up soon, my heart. Would you care for this dance?”

Across their connection, distantly, Del felt a flash of indignation, of anger. She could not focus on it, not while Tyron was speaking with her-- she needed her guard up, and there was no way to tell if the feelings weren't hers also. And then, as though summoned by her discomfort, her husband is at her side.

Er. Elen's husband.

"Darling!" is all she manages to get out before the kiss to her temple dissolves any words that were on her tongue. Heat explodes across her face from the point, washing down her neck like a tide of molten lava. It takes a moment for thought to return-- Cyran is being... sharp. Firm. Brusque. Not with her, but certainly in a terse dismissal of Tyron and his presence here. It felt protective, not unlike the sternness she had seen him in battle with. Not at all dissimilar to how she had felt the night before, in Cyran's dream, when she had seen that woman wearing a ring on her finger that matched the one on his. The one he had not called 'wife', but was in his head nonetheless. So, perhaps it was her own feelings after all, merely projecting onto the situation.

But there was something in the way he looked at her that made her throat run dry. The way he called her 'my heart'.

Elen. He called Elen 'my heart'. Not her, not Del, but the line was becoming steadily blurrier within her fluster, within the reminder of her own complicated feelings of gut-twisting envy at seeing someone else in his presence who would dare call him 'hers'.

When he extends his hand for hers, Del places it without hesitation-- without thinking at all, really-- into his palm, allowing him to help her stand. There's a rush of gratitude as she sweeps her thumb across his knuckles, thankful for the rescue. "I would love nothing more,"[/color] she agrees with a smile. Del is doing her best to sound graceful, but there is a rushed, hurried quality to her words. She really could not wait to get away from Tyron, was thrilled to be walking away from the table toward the dance floor, hand to hand with Cyran. Being the one who shared a ring with him this time, even if it was only for the ruse. Only just for pretend.

The band must have seen the purpose in their stride, for as the waltz faded, a sultry, smoky chord resonates through the room. The opening bars of a tango, setting the blood in her veins on fire and making that jealous little voice in the back of her mind sing.

Del was not much of a dancer, but her time as Elen, of being taught by Cyran, had certainly been eye opening in that regard. A small burst of determination, feeling a little light headed from the intensity of the feeling, Del turns to Cyran, sliding her arm across the width of his shoulders as she drew herself closer. Her expression is a silent query, though smouldering behind the amber as her chest rises and falls in rhythm with the song as it starts to strike up more fervently; this dance?

There was a kind of SNAP in Cyran’s mind as something certain and sure took root in him with Del’s acceptance. He held out his hand for her to accept, offering her a smile. The waltz faded with a decrescendo until it died out entirely. Then like the sudden swell of thunder, the music struck up once more - a the pace a hummingbird’s heartbeat, and the music lively, with the sting of a stringed instrument accentuating the tempo. A tango.

Cyran knew little about tango. He’d seen it done in formal dances, and learned about it with his instructor way back when in his first century of life, the days before he’d been formally branded as a disappointment. Tango had always been a fun dance for Cyran. He found it interesting, and had the speed and precision for it… but never had he performed a tango with a partner he’d trusted. Never performed with a partner who was as in sync with him as Del. His chest thrummed with anticipation as he reached down to press a kiss to the back of her hand, the two taking their place across from one another on the pristine ballroom floor.

And then he straightened, and pulled Del closer to him, and the dance began in earnest.

Here are the most important fundamentals of tango dance: small steps, dynamic movements, and flourishes meant to accentuate the smoothness of every action. Perhaps Del was not as experienced in dance, and Cyran himself was not as versed in this particular style, but there was one thing he knew as surely as he knew himself. He was the frame with which Del would shine on. The darker the shadows, the brighter the light. And Cyran intended to show everyone in this room how stunning his wife was.

The fact that they were not really married did not matter. Illias and Elen were in love, the kind of deep partnership that came maybe once in a lifetime. But Cyran and Del’s relationship was rooted in something far older than love, friendship, or even respect. No - it had begun, in an ash-strewn Darkveil alley, with the predecessor to all of these things. Understanding.

And that was the crux of it all.

Cyran understood Del, intimately as one might a lover. He knew what made her beautiful, far more than just superficial looks. Her strength, her perseverance, her kindness. Her desire to fix things. The way left things better than the way they’d been when she arrived. All of that and more, Cyran understood as well as he understood himself. And on the dance floor, it was conveyed in every step, every move and flip, every pasodoble into a twirl or a spin. The air was electric. No, it was more accurate to say the air felt aflame. A slow, gentle-burning candle that had morphed into a blazing inferno, and it showed no signs of burning out.

Cyran knew he shouldn’t look. Shouldn’t give the man any further attention. The man who’d made Del uncomfortable by soliciting her didn’t deserve the time of day. And yet, as they circled the floor, he found his gaze drifting towards the crowd all the same. He scanned over the sea of shocked and intrigued faces, until his single visible eye landed on the suit-clad human, who was making it no secret that he was watching the couple, insulted at being rebuffed so thoroughly. No doubt lamenting that he was not the one dancing with Del.

Good.

Perhaps this particular moment wasn’t critical to the mission. Maybe Cyran was allowing himself to get distracted. But that didn’t matter, not right now. He was alight, and with Del moving in perfect sync with him, step for step, movement for movement, that somehow felt more important.

And that was the most dangerous thought of them all.

It should have been more awkward; Del did not typically like to be so overtly exposed, being incredibly shy by nature, and she knew Cyran didn't either. But she also could feel the rush from their connection through their rings, the desire of a fiercely proud husband to put his wife on display for all to admire, and that made her burn in a way she could not properly identify. It was enough to make her heart race, though they'd barely begun to dance. As the music thrums around them, Cyran pulls her close by her waist, and she finds herself nearly nose to nose with Cyran.

Close. So terribly close. Like the dressing room.

If there was any hesitation or uncertainty in her form, it evaporates in a rush of heat. The dance, one of passion, teasing, closeness and yearning contact, suddenly becomes a lot easier to perform. For these moments, it's just her and Cyran, intertwined and breathless, following Cyran's lead helplessly across the dance floor, as though she could not stand to be apart from him for even a second, as if he could lead her anywhere and she would happily be at his side no matter where they went.

Odd how fierce and true that thought felt, but that's far from the fore of her mind now. She's twirling, moving as he does, their steps and heartbeats in time with the dance. She bends and twists around him as though orbiting a star, a comet trailing twinkling gossamer skirts around the centre of her world, clings to his arms and shoulders to prevent herself from being swept away. She knew she could rely on him to bear her movements, knew he would be solid. She trusted him so totally to have her back, to be there when she needed him... And that was the point, wasn't it? That she trusted him so, so much.

As the song hits its crux, a trilling, thready note on a brass instrument, she turns and lets herself fall. With her feet sliding out from under her, she falls straight backwards into a dip as her husband catches her in his arms, walking with her, heels dragging across the floor until she is up again, twirling into a sudden halt, her leg lifted up to his hip, and her hand splayed across his cheek as the song ends.

There is silence for what feels like an eternity, a moment that is just the two of them. Elen and Cyran, Del and Illias... or however it was supposed to work. Right now it didn't matter. Her eyes bright and sparkling as she finds herself again face to face with Cyran, breathing heavily. He looks dishevled and bright-eyed as well, handsome and intense, his breath caressing her heated cheeks as they stood close enough to--

Oh.

Feeling light headed, and not from the spinning, for just an instant, her lips part.

Sudden and raucous applause brings Del out of her reverie, looking startled for a moment. But-- wait, no, Elen wouldn't be startled, this was the whole point. An easy smile blooms across her face as she tucks a strand of loose hair behind Cyrans ear, leaning in to whisper "Thank you for the rescue, dear heart."

How long did they stand there, in the middle of that floor? How long did Cyran hold to Del’s waist, her leg hooked on his hip, chest heaving from the exertion of the dance, the both of them flushed from the activity? He wasn’t sure. It felt like forever, when in reality there were only a few seconds between the end of the song and the polite applause from the crowd at their dance. A few tantalizing seconds in which Cyran remembered the dressing room from the other day.

And then the moment shattered.

This was normal for Illias and Elen, he supposed. A couple whose love had not been doused by time. So he forced himself to remain calm, plaster a serene smile on his face as the two gracefully made their way off of the dance floor.

The whisper in his ear caught him off guard. Not words for the show or the ruse - for if she’d meant to convince the crowd, she might have uttered them out loud for others to hear. No, this thanks was for him and him alone. Not a show from Elen to Illias, but Del thanking Cyran for rescuing her with such sincerity. My dear heart.

The lines between cover and reality were dangerously blurring, and it bothered Cyran how little Del’s affection concerned him.

“Always.” He whispered back. “I’m sure you could have handled the situation yourself.” He paused, thoughtful. “Though that doesn’t mean you have to.” Each word spoken with conviction, and a ghost of their conversation in her dream a few evenings ago - Del was stalwart, and someone who never gave up. But that didn’t mean she had to bear those burdens alone. And at the very least, dealing with upper class high society assholes, he was experienced.

He’d thought he was done. But for her? He would brave it all again.

“Ah, come, my dear. You must be exhausted after dancing in these heels, and we have a prior engagement soon.” They had to meet with the Vironas soon - and he desired to get out of the crowd. The attention made him nervous. Now that Cyran had calmed down from his anger, he realized that he’d been hasty. Anyone could have seen them, that they had far more grace and skill than a pair of mild-mannered seamstress ought to have. Perhaps they’d just painted a target on their back.

But oh, it had been a beautiful moment of reckless abandon. A lightning strike in the storm.

And the damage had already been done.

Cyran gripped her arm, nodding politely at those in the crowd who whistled and waved at them. His arm never left Del’s all the way to the open bar. How much more distractions could he afford before he slipped? Cyran wasn’t sure, and he didn’t want to find out. He needed to keep his head in the game… a difficult endeavor when memories of their dance played through his memories every time he closed his eye.

The Zironas were already waiting by the time Cyran and Del made their way over - a little late because of the dance, but punctuality was never something that nobles cared for. It was a sign of power to arrive fashionably late. Virion was already enjoying a drink as his wife, Layla, waved them over with a bright smile.

“Master Illias! Mistress Elen! Please, come, sit! I hope you don’t mind that we began drinking without you.”

Vaguely, Cyran remembered that he had offered to pay for drinks for the evening. Cyran flagged down a servant and opened up his tab before placing an order for wine - that was about as much as he was willing to indulge while he needed to keep his mind sharp. As the young couple stood, Cyran kissed Layla on the cheek and gave Virion a handshake.

“Your jacket.” He offered the cleaned article of clothing to Virion, who nodded in appreciation.

“Much appreciated. Now, come, sit. Layla has been talking nonstop about you two, and she’s rather excited to socialize. Especially after…”

A dark look overtook his features - even Layla seemed to sour.

Cyran shook his head in sympathy. “We were in attendance at the play when it happened. I’m grateful that the attacker’s blade didn’t strike true.”

“A dud blade.” Virion scoffed. “I was lucky. The guards have apprehended the criminal, thank Solaria. If they hadn’t I would hesitate to appear in public at all.”

But they hadn’t apprehended the assassin. Keeping his true thoughts concealed, Cyran gestured for the others to sit. “And we are all thankful for it. But please, banish these grim thoughts for now. We shall enjoy drinks together and forget all that unpleasant business.”

Those words should not have impacted her so. They were matter of fact statements. Earnest ones, no doubt, but matter of fact nonetheless. Cyran was simply stating what he thought, whispered against her ear as he led her graciously off the dance floor.

Always.

Said as if it came naturally, as the sun rose and set. Always. That he would be there, not because he doubted her capability, but because she did not have to bear everything on her own.

Words fail her, then, as they both give passing smiles and acknowledgments to the crowd as they make their way. It's a good thing she doesn't have to speak in this moment, because surely the tremor would be very audible in each syllable. It was one thing to say words like that-- it was quite another to believe them. To be willing to act on them. Cyran had proven, not merely through words, but through action, that he was someone who was true to his beliefs.

Her ponderance of what that might mean, to rely on someone who wanted to help her and be there when she struggled, was interrupted by their approach of the Zironas. Watching Cyran and remembering the strange, too-familiar rules of nobles (a cheek kiss with a stranger! How risque!) Del tries to embolden herself with Elen's countenance, stepping forward to touch cheeks with Layla and offer her hand to Virion, who bent politely over it without kissing it. Something Del was quite thankful for, in passing.

... again, she found it odd, as they took their seats, that it should bother her at all when recieving such affection from Cyran-- Illias did not make her uncomfortable in the least.

She pushes the thought aside for now, beaming as she tucks her skirts around her legs to sit in the chair. "Not at all, we would never begrudge you getting a beverage or two while you waited. We shall simply have to catch up. Ah, a wonderful vintage, Illias! Thank you, that ought to get us started." Her light laughter turns as the subject of the play comes up, mirroring the looks of concern and consternation around her. She wants to ask more about the incident in question but... Cyran is right. Though he did not direct her to speak or not speak on it, any direct line of questioning about the debacle of the night before would become suspicious. And given that the matter seemed closed to all but herself and Cyran, there was little need for gossip and rumour mongering.

But the question remained; why would an assassin be interested in a man such as Virion at all?

It was time to do a little digging. But first, before they could mine, they had to excavate their better judgment.

"Right you are, darling, as usual." she gives Cyran a pinched little cutesy smile, and looks back to Virion and Layla. "Now, I believe last we spoke, there was talk of cards? What say we make it interesting, loser of the hand has to down their drink?" she offers, leaning in on the table, the picture of a noble woman eager to get the party started. Beneath that, Del feels confident. She was not a heavy drinker by any means, but she had spent nearly ten years being mentored by a dwarf. She was sure, if it came to it, she could drink Virion under the table. Cyran was the one who needed to keep his wits about him, to observe and collect information as a practised noble and the primary handler of the job. Del would help to break down the door to get him inside. So to speak.

Besides, she could really use a drink.

Cyran blinked, taken aback by the proposition of a drinking game. “Dear, perhaps we should save that for later, since the night is so young…”

But Del seemed sure of what she was saying, an underlying confidence that he could feel laced into every word even as she played coy. Something in her body language seemed to say, trust me - I know what I’m doing. Cyran knew what she had in mind, of course. Del herself would be inebriated, but so would the other player. Nothing loosened the tongue quite like alcohol did. And she was willing to be the one to take the hit so Cyran could pry information out of him.

“Nonsense, Illias.” Virion waved him away before he could voice any further objections. “I promised cards, and I would be remiss if I did not at least indulge in a few games.” He looked on the fence about adding the drinking component, but in his mind, there was no more danger. It was okay for him to indulge.

Cyran offered a small smile. “And who am I to deny my wife anything? I hope you don’t mind if I sit back and watch. I’ve not got the mind for cards, nor the poker face.”

“Neither do I.” Layla chimed in brightly, stifling a giggle politely behind her hand. “I suppose the two of us will simply have to make sure that our spouses do not get too wild.”

Cyran nodded, turning to face Del. “I don’t imagine that too much will go wrong.” There was a touch of concern in his voice, though there was resolution as he nodded at Del. Unspoken words conveyed in that single action - I trust you. Do what you need to do.

The group beckoned over a waiter to request some shot glasses, and Virion produced a pack of cards from his pocket. “We’ll play with the standard rules. When a player loses a hand, they take a shot.” There was humor in his eyes as he said, “Though I warn you, I’ve got the constitution of a horse.”

---

Four hands and an hour later Virion Zirona was struggling to keep his head off of the table.

He and Del were utterly engrossed in their hand, so focused - or in Virion’s case, focusing on keeping himself awake - that Cyran and Layla could talk freely while their spouses played away. Layla patted her husband kindly on the shoulder, shaking her head. “Oh, dear… it seems he’s already gone overboard.”

“Nonsssssssense. I can… st’ll play.” He slurred, hiccuping as he pulled himself into an upright sitting position with some help from the young elven woman.

“He usually gets like this at cards.” Layla whispered to Cyran. “When he played my papa for the first time, it was pandemonium. Virion can keep going for a long time, but he ended up acting rather… ungentlemanly towards my papa. He ended up flipping a table!”

“Oh, my.” Cyran murmured, alarmed. “That sounds rather violent.”

“It wasn’t as bad as it sounds.” Layla assured him. “I rather like that wild streak of his. But papa hated him for it. He was already on the fence about Viri, saying things like ‘Viri’s no good for the Company’ and stuff like that, but he’s just stubborn and old fashioned!”

“Ideas?” Cyran arched a brow at that word.

Layla shrugged. “I don’t know, really. I don’t pay much attention to that kind of stuff! Honestly, when Viri explains it to me, it goes in one ear and out the other.”

Cyran frowned, thoughtful. A son in law butting heads with the head of a trade company… that was a promising lead. The assassin knew from experience that nobility and high-profile merchants would stop at nothing to get what they wanted, even if it meant quietly making a problem go away. But did Layla’s father’s hate run so deep that he would hire a hitman to take out his son in law?

That was up for Del to pry out of Virion.

Cyran gently rubbed small circles into Del’s back, mindful of her scars, as the game continued on. Regardless of how he felt about the situation, they needed this information. All he could do was hope that Del would keep winning, and get Virion to lower his guard down enough to let something incriminating slip.

Her face warms at the idea that Cyran-- Illias, dammit-- could not deny his wife anything and she gives him a soft smile. Those little flickers of concern mingled with trust did not escape her-- he knew she knew what she was doing, but was worried anyway for her well-being.

She reached over to pluck an imaginary loose thread from his sleeve, an excuse to touch his arm with silent appreciation and reassurance. It would be alright.

As she returns to the Zirona's and their enthusiastic responses to their own preferred means of socialization Del gave Virion the smallest of smiles, certainly hoping she looked somewhere between coy and sheepish as he took her up on her challenge. "Well, I certainly hope you won't go too easy on me."

---

Either Virion was not aware horses were known for having a terrible constitution or Del was doing better than she'd thought.

Truthfully, she'd had a few lucky hands at the start that had given her a considerable lead, but she was also not at all the best liar. Indeed, her only saving grace was that she had a practiced means of keeping her face carefully neutral, which was not precisely a poker face-- certainly not to the trained eye-- but for someone who was gradually becoming more and more drunk, her visage was damn near impenetrable.

That said, Virion was not the only one who was drunk.

The wine was strong. Pleasant and delicious, altogether too easy to drink too much of by accident. Even though Del was practiced at such things, it had been a very, very long time since he had more than one or two drinks in one sitting, and now she was onto her sixth.

And as she loses this next hand, it made it seven.

"A-ha! M'luck, it sssseems, is turnin' around." Virion says boastfully, before his chest bobs in a little hiccup.

Another part of Del's practice of a neutral expression was that, outwardly, it was very hard to tell that she was drunk at all. It helped she was sitting of course; walking would be an entirely different issue. But to all outward appearance, Del certainly seemed to be holding her drink remarkably well.

At least, until she started talking.

"Psssh, luck is right," she mumbles good naturedly, picking up the glass. Del raises it to Virion in toast to a well played round, and downs it, as promised. Setting her glass down, with rock-steady hands, to pick up the cards to shuffle them and deal another hand.

Her wine muddled head was spinning a bit now, but she was alright. She had to be-- for whatever it was she was currently doing, it was a little hard to remember. She was Elen. Cyran was Illias. He was her husband. She adored him very much and thought the absolute world of him and thought he was very handsome. Virion and Layla were friends they'd met aboard the ship. Oh, right, she didn't like water, that seemed important. But she DID like her husband, very much. Very very very very very much.

"I have to admit, you've made a pretty sss... specctacle. No. Spectactular come-back." Del deals the cards out, leaving a row of unflipped cards in between them, while she takes a peek at her own hands. Absolute trash. The ends of her lips curl slightly in a smile, as though she had struck gold and was struggling to hide it, and looked back up.

Virion, who was far deeper in his cups even than Del, frowns a little at his hand as the start to bet in. "Sssssuppose you could say that. My father used t'say I was born with a horseshoe up my ass." he laughs boistrously, and adds more chips to the pile, as he bets. Del clicks her tongue, and calls, adding her own to the pile, to see where this goes.

"I've jus' kind of had a good run with a lot of things. Act on instincts that turn out t'be right and boom! So that's why I thought it was weird that Layla's father didn't like any of my ideas, even though they worked pretty great for others. Made them a lot of money in the weapons market." He starts flipping over the middle cards. "Think he blames me for the business not doing as well."

"That's rough buddy," Del gives him a sympathetic look, that vanishes when he turns the cards over. "Shit."

Virion barks a laugh, gesturing to Del, "And there's the proof! Drink up!"

Depite losing yet again, she takes the drink like a champ. Now, she feels warm and floaty. As though she could float away, up, up and into the sky, where she could kiss the moon and sing it a wonderful little song.

But there was a hand on her back, lovely and sweet and helping her keep focus and firmly on Charon. She listed her head to one side, looking up at Cyran with impossible fondness. He was such a good husband. The absolute best. She leans into his touch without care or pretense, and lays her head on his shoulder, so that she might play with the long strands of his hair, running her fingers through the ends affectionately, driven by a need to touch him, be close, that she cannot quite remember why she wasn't doing it this whole time. But how to convey that? How to let him know how much she admired him? Ah! An idea!

She looks up at Cyran through her lashes and continues playing with his hair. "My gorgeous humsdban." Del coos up at him.

Nailed it.

From her expression, it was difficult to tell that Del had a bit too much to drink at all. She looked stoic, able to keep a rather impressive poker face even as she lost a few hands, forced to down her fair share of drinks. It was only the faint haziness he could pick up from the ring that told him her liquor was affecting her at all. He idly twisted the piece of jewelry on his finger - worn there in public for the ruse no matter how strange it felt - all the while trying not to worry too much about her mental state.

Del and Virion were speaking in slurred words in a conversation that probably made sense to them. Though Virion’s offhand comment about luck struck him as interesting. He seemed to have a high opinion of himself… and a low one about Layla’s father. And the fact that he’d been dipping into the weapon’s market would explain why Cyran’s client had a vested interest in keeping him safe. He was hardly a gambling man, but he’d put money on the fact that Virion probably was Argent’s supplier.

While he kept his hand on Del’s back, Cyran finally spoke up. His voice was casual - his intentions, anything but.

“It sounds rather ungrateful of him.” He murmured, voice full of faux-sympathy and understanding. “After everything you’ve done for him, it sounds like he doesn’t appreciate you as a member of the business.”

Virion swiveled to look at him with all the grace of an infant who’d yet to develop the muscle strength to support their head. The anger in his eyes was only dulled by liquor, as if he was too sloshed to fully grasp at that indignant rage. “Exs…. Exactly! Says he’d rather keel over than let me head the business. Sayssssssssss,” He furrowed his brow, the words escaping him. “Says Layla’s the only one-“ A hiccup- “Fit to run it. Joke’s on himmmmm, though. We’re gonna, uh, what’s the word…”

He snapped his fingers.

“Our vows. When we renew them in Sol City, Layla’s gonna sr’render her title to me.”

Cyran’s eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second before he smoothed his expression over. Interesting. They intended to renew their marriage, and Virion intended to take the reins on his father in law’s company. He couldn’t imagine that the patriarch was especially happy about this news.

He had the why, at the very least. But the how still eluded him. Who had Layla’s father hired to take out her husband? Where were they hiding? They were clearly some sort of master of disguise, able to take on the visage of another. Or perhaps they were merely laying low in some lower deck, biding their time until Virion’s guard was down. His gaze drifted towards Layla. Was she in on this? No, she didn’t seem especially deceptive, unless there was something about her that was capable of concealing her true nature from even Cyran’s keen lie detecting abilities.

She genuinely seemed to love her husband…

It was doubtful that she knew against the plot against Virion's life.

His mind was moving quickly, trying to parse out the unknowns they were still dealing with, when something tugged at his hair, and a weight rested on his shoulder. Del? Surprised out of his stupor, he turned down to look at her. She was toying with the silvered ends of his hair like a cat playing with unspooled yarn. Was she okay? Perhaps she was further gone than he thought.

“Are you sure you’re alright to continue, my heart?” He asked gently, concern tinging his voice - and his question quiet enough that the others would not overhear. Despite it all, the casual term of affection felt natural. Why was that?

In lieu of an answer, Del looked at him with wide eyes, still not unlike a cat who’d found something shiny and interesting. And the words that stumbled out of her mouth made him freeze.

Um.

Those were certainly words that she’d said with confidence.

Cyran’s facade slipped, only for a moment - an embarrassed noise, a muffled protest that died on his throat. A reaction Illias wouldn’t have had to a complement from his partner of nearly two centuries. He covered it up by pressing a hand to her forehead, like checking for fever. “I think you’ve had a little too much to drink, dearest.” He murmured kindly, trying his best to cover up his surprise at being called gorgeous of all things.

She didn’t mean it. She was just rambling incoherently.

He turned to the others, an apologetic smile on his face. “I suppose that’s probably our cue to leave, yes? You’ll have to forgive me for calling an end to the festivities so early, but my wife’s health takes priority over everything else.”

And he was especially concerned that she was so far gone she would be saying things like… that. He secured an arm ever-so-gently around her shoulder, making sure she was supported. In a quiet whisper, he asked, “Are you well enough to walk home? You can lean against me, if you need.” Internally, he was cursing himself somewhat. He’d known this was a risky idea, but Del had been so sure… and now it was entirely possible she’d gotten herself sick on too much she’d imbibed. At the very least, she would feel this in the morning.

Del gasps, though not at the intel, valuable though it was. "That's so swweeet, we ssshould renew our vows, what do you think, my beloved bird-song?" she inquires sweetly, the honeyed words rolling off a velvet tongue with such fluidity that they would surprise her if she had the wherewithal to be surprised. As Cyran touches her forehead, she closes her eyes, nuzzling his palm affectionately with her head. "Too much? Meeee? Noooo." There was a lovely crook between his shoulder blade and his neck right that she could curl up in, if she could get to it, but he was looking down at her and that, for a moment, was all she could focus on, a little starstruck by the stunning, incredible, stunning, beautiful, stunning man in before her.

And then Cyran suggests that they should depart for the night, and she blinks, realizing that she must have done something wrong, or they did not get what they needed, and thus, the game was ending early. But the mission!

"NoOoOOoOoOooo I was winniiiing--" she grumbles, cutting herself short as Cyran calls her his wife. Wife. A funny word, that make her chest squirm. It also rhymed with knife. Did he know that? It seemed very important. That was fate, surely. Cyran liked knives and she was his wife! She'd cracked the code!

"Wife-knifeeee." She says this with a very sage nod, appropos of seemingly nothing.

Layla laughs musically. "Such a shame to end things so soon, but it is as you say. I think I might have to get my own wonderful spouse to bed, isn't that so, Virion dear?"

"I cannn do it, I can go to the... the rooon." he swoons, looking at his wife drunkenly. "I wouldst have won, y'know." Layla simply nods, reaching up to pat his cheek consolingly.

"Nuh-uh-- ohhh, thank you my darlingest heart," She croons as Cyran helps her to her feet. "I'mmm okay, I can walk-- oop!" Her ankles fail her, the heels creating wobbly baby-deer legs as she leans into Cyran's chest for support. "No, no I cannot. You smell ssooo nice, do you know that?" she hangs off of his neck for a moment, chin resting on his sternum, smiling up at him with drunken affection. She opened her mouth to call him Cyran, but remembered that wasn't right, they were playing a game, and her Cyran, her Rogue, was someone else. Who was he, again? "Husbshan." Ah, yes right, of course. "How. Are you so lovely and ransom? Handsome." More rhymes!

--Boy, she sure was saying a lot of things out loud. It was probably fine.

"Isn't he such a genetlrlam?" she straightens and leans on him as they walk, wobbling in her stupid, stupid shoes as they start away from the table. Over Cyran's shoulder, she waves. "Goodniiiight you two, get to bed safe! We'll play again soon!"

But perhaps not that soon.

Staggering with him across the deck, she leans heavily against Cyran, one hand on his chest. "I can make it, jusss gotta keep puting one foot in front of the other in front of the other. Do you know that you are the best? Your hair is so sparkly, silverrrr little moonbeaaams. Moonbeaaam, sing a song for--oh," Del stops abruptly, holding Cyran more closely as a lurch from the ship beneath their feet carries them up and down. A patch of rough seas, creating a tossing effect along the broad hull of the boat. That sends Del's already spinning head into the dangerous, nauseated territory of illness; her dark skin goes ashen and, for a moment, feels terribly, horribly sober, as she remembers where she is.

"I..." She says very shakily, as though desperately trying to hold any of this back. She does not wish to vacate her stomach contents in front of Cyran, pleaaase, gods, what ever ones are still alive, to please spare her that indignity. But, no such luck. "M-might be sick."

It's as much a warning as they're going to get, for the ship lurches again and Del, with shocking agility for one in her condition, moves from Cyran's side just far enough to lean over the railing of the boat, gripping it hard enough to leave prints on the metal with her hands as she is violently ill over the side of the boat.

“I’d be more than happy to if that’s what you desire-“ The next words died in his throat at the casual term of endearment. What in the world had she just called him?

Birdsong?

Cyran choked on his wine, unable to contain his reaction this time. Not when Del had just thrown… that at him. Where had that come from? Perhaps she was simply overly affectionate while inebriated, and this was how she regarded everyone. That was the only reason she would call him something so sweet with so much joy in her face. And as he put his palm to her forehead, he almost thought she was leaning into it, as if she reveled in receiving such casual affections. Lunala, he’d never seen her so relaxed before, her usual strong grace and self-assuredness replaced with someone rather sweet and sappy and beside herself.

“Yes, too much.” For some reason he could not bring himself to remove his hand from her forehead. Her skin was warm, but not any more than it usually was. At least she wasn’t sick, not yet. He needed to make sure she had plenty of water, and something on her stomach to curb the severity of the alcohol.

He glanced back at the cards on the table.

Cyran wasn’t sure if she was winning, but the outcome of the game didn’t matter. She’d already extracted what they needed from the couple, at the cost of her own health for the night. He shook his head, voice gentle. “You were, but winning or losing doesn’t matter to me. I just want you to be happy and healthy and tucked safe in bed when you’ve had just a touch too much to drink.”

Her brows furrowed for a moment, and Cyran thought maybe she was trying to puzzle through what he’d said. But then her face lit up in pure, unrepentant joy, as if she’d just solved some major puzzle. He wasn’t sure where this logical leap had come from, but Del certainly looked proud of herself.

He figured it was best to roll with what she was saying. “Yes. My beloved wife-knife. So sharp that not even spirits could dull her wit.” He crooned, a fond smile on his face and a strange thudding sensation gripping his chest. It was rather sweet, he thought, that after imbibing so much liquor, the substance that unlocked hidden thoughts and actions, she was so sweet to him. Complements he didn’t feel he deserved, but appreciated nonetheless. He nodded at Layla, who was helping her own inebriated husband to their own room.

“It has been an absolute pleasure. We’ll have to plan another outing soon.”

He helped Del to her feet, the elven woman stubbornly insisting that she was fine on her own until she discovered that absolutely was not the case. He tried not to audibly react once more as she supported herself against his chest, singing praises in the air, the words progressively getting more incoherent and less resembling what she was attempting to say. Her mouth was moving, forming things that may as well have been gibberish for his heart pounding in his chest at those complements.

She must have been… really committed to the ruse, that was all.

That didn’t stop Cyran from thinking about it as they walked across the deck, making their way back to their cabin. He remained silent, his lips pursed together while he kept an arm securely around Del. She was singing something, about his hair and moonlight…

Dear lord. Cyran was almost glad he wasn’t married, because if he ever had someone who truly cared about him the way Del was acting then he might actually understand what he’d been missing all of his life.

The ship lurched violently, a violent wave crashing into the side of the Judeia. Del, in her current state, could not keep herself upright - Cyran, who had hardly had anything to drink, managed to keep his balance on the rolling sea, wrapping his arms around her torso to keep her from getting thrown to the ground.^[1] Her face turned dangerously pale as this exposure to her fear sobered her up momentarily.

Oh, Del.

Cyran released his hold on her just in time for her to lean over the side of the railing and emptying the contents of her stomach into the ocean. The railing crunched under her grip, steel molded under the will of the sick metalsmith. Cyran flew to her side, too alarmed to bother with pretense.

“Del!” He hissed between clenched teeth, wrapping his hand around her shoulders. “Dammit, I knew we shouldn’t have done this.” She was drunk, sick, and surrounded by her primordial fear, and Cyran had let this happen. He couldn’t fight the might of the ocean, but gods if he were capable of it he would banish the seas from their ocean in this moment. The light buzz that had surrounded them had all but vanished, leaving Cyran with nothing to do but gently brush the curls from her face, holding them behind her head.

“It’s okay, love.” He murmured, as soothing as he could. “Get it out of your system. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

---

1. Cat's Grace

Del is aware, albeit distantly, as she expels much of the night's worth of wine, that this is wholly embarrassing on many different levels. Or, it should be.

The man who was holding her curls away from her face, comforting her with his soft voice and tender words, who had called her wife, and now love, was at her side. Promising safety and security. Though she had not gotten this sick from alcohol since she was several decades younger, prided herself on her professionalism, and faltered here-- It was hard to feel embarrassed when he was so committed to understanding her.

When at last her stomach has nothing more to vacate, she pulls back, grimacing at the foul taste in her mouth, and wobbles, held upright by Cyran. A lovely name for a lovely man.

She looks up at him, bleary eyed, touching the side of his face. She's too far gone to be able to remember much of tonight, if anything, save for the fact that she embarrassed herself... but in the moment, the word 'love' he uttered to her resonates. A sober Del could rationalize that word being meant for Elen, being used in the platonic sense that some with Cyran's particular accent often did. A term of neutral, if fond endearment.

Drunk Del, though, was a little less inclined to think and turn her gaze from these things she felt she could not have. She dared to hope.

The words that fall out of her mouth are elvish, but an older, more archaic tongue, an accent that cannot be placed, laced with sincerity. They simply tumble from her lips as if they had always been there, but all her elvish previously had been of the modern vernacular and dialect. Where they came from, even she did not know. But something her soul remembered spoke. "A, Arimelda Gilthoniel, (O Dearest Starkindler)
silivren penna míriel. (silver shimmers slants down)
o menel aglar elenath, (sparkling like jewels)
Na-chaered palan-díriel era'vun-silhen." (gift the world the beauty of your midnight eyes.)

And then she hiccups.

Swaying a little, Del bumps her head againts his shoulder. A wonderful pillow. A shame they could not simply lay down on the deck and sleep here, it would be so nice to stargaze. But as she hears water against the hull of the ship and shivers, she thinks maybe not. But it's hard to be scared when the man she was clinging to like a boat seeking a port in a storm had promised her safety.

"Mmmmmnn. Thanks youuu." So wonderful to her, so wonderful. She loops her arms around his waist, tucking her head into that perfect spot between his jaw and the crook of his shoulder, nestling close as though she would like to be even closer. "Cyran, Bâhzundushuh, cn'we go back to the room now, blease?"

Dwarvish this time, gutteral and thick, a tongue that had an easier time wrestling with consonants while drunk.The game had been forgotten, but he had called her Del, said her name in her ear with notes of worry in his voice, and she could not simply ignore him saying her name. It sounded like a song when he did it.

"Uh, excuse me, sir? Madame?" A young human attendant steps forward, having seen the episode from the drunk rich lady, and interpreting, incorrectly, that her husband was in need of assistance. "I would be happy to assist you in availing your, ah... unwell wife to her room, if you prefer?"

As he reached for her, ostensibly to help the man to guide his belligerent wife back to their rooms, Del's eyes open and narrow. Her teeth bare slightly, and there is a faint scent of smoke rising from her hair, her voice low and quiet. "Haran tel'quiet, ent va tarkhal que siilen."

Modern elvish this time, a threat Cyran can feel as the attendant, attempting to be helpful, steps too close. Touch me, and you will lose that hand.