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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Jul 9, 2023 11:48:02 GMT -5
It was hard to watch a woman so normally held together and assured unravel so. Not just because she’d drank enough to make herself sick, but because she’d done so in an attempt to help Cyran with this job, and because he’d accidentally brought here here to a place where she was so connected with her worst fear. It was a horrible combination, really, all facilitated by Cyran himself, all leading up to this moment. As the waves crashed against the ship and Del’s stomach churned violently, and all he could do was hold her to prevent her from going overboard. All he could do was hold tight to her hair and prevent her from getting vomit in it.
He wished he could help more.
When Del finished vomiting, Cyran’s grip tightened on her shoulder for the briefest second. “Can you walk? Let’s get you back inside.” Away from the waves, he didn’t say. “And tuck you in a nice, comfortable bed for the evening.”
Del turned to him then, and opened her mouth to speak. Rather than a slurred rebuttal as he’d expected, she uttered something in a language that was both utterly foreign to him and yet intimately familiar. Elvish? No, he didn’t quite understand it. At first he thought it was gibberish, perhaps her attempt at speaking in her native tongue, but it was spoken in a practiced manner like she was reciting a passage from a book. It took a moment for Cyran to place it - he’d not heard it used in passing conversation, but in archaic poetry in his father’s library centuries ago.
Ancient elvish.
Cyran blinked, taken aback by the lyrical poetry that left Del’s mouth as she stared at him. That she knew a passage in the old tongue was not something particularly surprising to him. Bits of the language and style still persisted today, as elves were so resistant to change and entangled in their roots that there would be no eliminating the language. People still knew euphemisms and literature passages… but to have it quoted at him in all seriousness, a moment of clarity amidst a sea of nausea and delirium, left Cyran more surprised than anything.
He wished he could understand what she was saying to him.
And then she hiccuped, leaning back into him, and the moment was over.
Cyran did, however, understand dwarvish, much to what would inevitably be sober Del’s chagrin. His mother was a linguist, and had grown up on an island of the Crescent Isles where dwarves and tradesmen were rather prevalent. The merchant’s tongue, she called it as she drilled the lessons into him. It hadn’t always stuck, but it was a useful language to know the bones of. And that, coupled with his fondness for avian terminology, meant he knew exactly what Del had called him.
Not to mention she’d used his name.
Turnabout was fair play - he’d accidentally let her own real name slip, after all. Still, Cyran couldn’t help but nervously glance around, searching for an unseen enemy that might have heard what she’d said. There was no one in the shadows - no one save the concerned attendant who’d seen Del throwing up from afar. Cyran cleared his throat, eyeing the attendant nervously, keeping a firm but gentle grip on Del.
“I… of course.” He swallowed. “Back to the room we go.”
The unfamiliar attendant stepped closer to them, his voice breaking the silence of the ship. Cyran moved to politely wave him away, a serene smile on his face. “Oh, no need for that. I’ve got this under control, thank you-“
But before Cyran could finish that sentence, the smell of smoke filled the air and Del tensed under him, her voice coming out in a quiet hiss, and -
Oh.
Cyran was thankful the attendant didn’t seem to understand elvish at all, so he’d had no idea the threat that had just been levied against him. One that she seemed to mean in all seriousness, spoken between bared teeth and thinly veiled hatred. A reaction he honestly hadn’t expected… with how sweet and touchy she was with him, toying with his hair and leaning against him and offering such affectionate words, he’d assumed she would be the same with everyone. And yet, here she was, leaning against him while shutting the rest of the world out. It meant something, though Cyran was too scared to properly formulate what it implied. Her trust in him, perhaps. He simply had not realized it was such a fragile, small thing, like the eggshell of a bird.
Cyran held firmly to her shoulder, taking a step back from the attendant. Rubbing small circles on her arm, he shook his head. His voice still held its genial tone, but with all the sharpness of a blade in the absence of any weapon. Del was not the only one that did not trust easily.
Cyran, too, kept people at arm’s length.
“Sir, I assure you my wife is in good hands. She had a little too much to drink at the bar, but I need no assistance escorting her to our room.”
The attendant blinked, startled by Cyran’s suddenly chilly behavior. “Begging your pardon, sir, but the safety of our guests is our top priority. If you’d allow me to -“
“If safety was such a big priority, then you’d be busy searching your ship for the intruder that’s still hiding, wouldn’t you?” Cyran snapped, his patience worn thin by the questions. Perhaps he would have tried to be nicer, but this - the ruse, the constant threat of discovery and attack, Del’s overwhelming kindness - it was beginning to make him feel stretched thin.
And based on the attendant’s reaction, he hadn’t expected it either.
“How did you…?”
Cyran sighed, pursing his lips.
“Forgive me. It’s been a long day - you’re not at fault. Just forget this happened, okay? I need to make sure that my wife makes it to bed safely.”
Perhaps the attendant would have offered more protest, but Cyran stepped forward and put a hand to his forehead before he could offer anything else in rebuttal. At once, the memories of this event, and Cyran’s words - his true name - faded away into obscurity in the man’s mind.[1]
Perhaps he should have been more careful about using his magic so openly, where anyone could have seen. But for all he knew, they were alone up here.
He could only hope that was the case.
By the time the attendant came to his senses, the two were gone, already making their way to their room.
Cyran shut and locked the door behind him, propping up one of his bags against the door for extra measure. It was probably an unnecessary endeavor, but he was feeling paranoid after that. Only when he was certain that they were safe and their door was as barricaded as it could be did he turn to Del. “You’re very clever, you know that, my fighter? Even now you still desire to protect yourself. You’re safe here - come and let me tuck you in.”
He wasn’t going to change her clothes into her pajamas while she was in this state - but Cyran took extra care to take her heels off, setting them gently to the side, and making sure to tuck her into the soft blankets and put plenty of pillows under her head. 1. Fade from Memory
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Post by Delaela Fenastra-Asiliari on Jul 11, 2023 1:06:46 GMT -5
She glowers at the attendant from her shelter on Cyran's collarbone; there had been a warning issued, and there would not be a second. He seemed quite keen to help, reaching out to pull Del away from her Cyran, and that would simply not do. She would not go anywhere with someone she did not know, especially not while he was already safe.
The amount of drink in her system was something to be thankful for in that moment, as Cyran wrapped his arm around her shoulder, stepping the both of them back and out of the reach of the attendant, and preventing Del's inebriated nerves from registering the threat at all. She relaxed into his shoulder, swaying a little on her feet as Cyran dealt with the man in brusque tones. The answer was a firm no, followed by a clipped rebuttal of the insistence of the attendant, and concluded with a touch to the mans head that left the man stupefied for a few moments.
Del didn't understand the magic that was used on the man, and frankly didn't care. Her husband had laid down the law and that was that. "Sure friggin' told you, he did." She mutters to the disassociating attendant. She forks her fingers at her eyes, then at him as she and Cyran walk briskly past and down the deck towards the safety of their room, a gesture entirely lost on the attendant who had just had his memory paused.
The walk at times seems to take forever and feels like she is moving liquid through the space. One blink, theyre picking their way down the endless flight of stairs for the past hour, another, and they had seemingly teleported down four hallways. Distantly, she was aware that she was in quite a state at the moment. She knew she was drunk, but she didn't know where to find the reins on her runaway carriage of a mind, with a mouth to match. She was a rudderless ship, adrift at sea, being tugged where she was meant to go by the wind in her sails.
Or, in Del's case, the man who had valiantly held her up the whole way back to their room.
She blinks again to find herself seated on the edge of the bed and swooning. Cyran locked and barricaded the door before coming back to her with sweet words and a soft, tired smile. Clever was not a word she heard attributed to her often. Maybe ever, it was hard to remember at the moment. "Don' wanna leave you," she grumbles, trying to toe off the heel of her infernal shoes before Cyran helps her with that as well. Prising them gently off her feet and placing them lightly to the side.
No one had ever done that before for her either, she knows. Not in her many years, most of which she cannot remember. But the part of her that remembered ancient elvish, the part that knew she had to get away, to fight, to find safe places, knew. It was not gone; merely, blissfully, forgotten.
Del doesn't protest as he guides her to lay down among the soft clouds and spingy moss, tucking them up and over her body, yeilding to his gentle direction. She was not a woman who liked to be helpless or vulnerable; her makeup was smeared and smudged, her elegant, starry dress rumpled and crimped, her carefully pinned hair a disaster. She was, by all accounts, a mess. And Cyran, without being asked, with such grace and compassion and affection, took it upon himself to help her through the worst of it. Keep her safe.
She wanted to stay.
"How... are you ssso good to me?" She murmurs, her vision a little bleary. It is neither sobriety, nor sorrow, but simple bewildered awe. How could she be worthy of such kindness? Didn't he know what she was?
...did she know what she was?
"I donnn unnerstand. How one person could be so per-perfect." Her eyelids droop, though she fights the pull of sleep. Her hand extends out from under the covers, seeking his. Her palms are clammy, her grip a little shaky as she fights a losing battle between the exhaustion and the intoxication. "I'm... lucky. To know you."
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Jul 13, 2023 15:32:49 GMT -5
Despite the gravity of the situation, with a man poking his nose a little too closely into their situation, and Del still inebriated in his arms, he managed a small laugh as the unsteady woman spoke up, just having to get the last word against the dazed attendant. She even made an odd watching motion with her hands, attempting to point at herself with two fingers before pointing at the attendant. In reality, she was more pointing somewhere over the side of his shoulder, but the effect would have been the same if the young man had been cognizant enough to realize what Del was doing.
She was still vaguely proud of herself even as Cyran led her all the way back to the room. They moved slowly - Del on unsteady feet, and the gentle rocking of the sea certainly couldn’t have been helping. He didn’t bother speaking to her, only murmuring gentle encouragement and guiding her along the halls until they made their way back to their room. She didn’t protest even as he went through the gentle motions of tucking her in and making sure she was comfortable. Only when he began to sit up, pulling himself off of the bed to let her rest, did Del finally speak up, a small question that he nearly thought he’d imagined.
Cyran stilled.
He turned around to face her, unsurprised to see that she was still bleary-eyed and out of sorts, exhaustion claiming her now that she was no longer standing upright. He grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket, moving to gently wipe the makeup and grime from her face.
“You’re my friend…” He muttered under his breath, voice slow and thoughtful. “It’s what anyone would do for their companions. I just want to help you whenever I can-“
And her next words undid him entirely.
Cyran stared down at her, mouth hanging agape. So many things he wanted to say - to deny her drunken, silly words - but before he could, she reached out from under the blanket, hand blindly groping to reach his with clammy, unsteady palms. So strong, yet so fragile. Searching for… something? Someone to speak with, to lean on? Cyran frowned, more thoughtful than worried or upset. Getting to know Del over the past few days had given him glimpses to the most agonizingly human parts of her. Del held herself so confidently that it was easy to forget that she had so much she carried on her shoulders. Thoughts and fears that only came out when she was vulnerable… in the quiet moments of sleep and in a drunken stupor.
Fears that she pushed through. Loneliness. Not believing herself worthy of help and friendship.
All of these little things that made Cyran ache.
He reached out back to her - an answer to her unspoken plea. “I’m lucky to know you, too.” He replied, letting out a shuddering breath that made his shoulders slump. “I am hardly perfect. But I am here.” How much would she remember of this encounter? Cyran had no way of knowing what she may or may not know when she awoke in the morning, but the fact that she most likely wouldn’t be able to recall his words emboldened him to speak. “I am sorry that you have been alone for so long…” He didn’t rightfully know why, but he could feel it. That hollowness that he recognized so easily in himself. “And I’m sorry that out of everyone in this world, you got stuck bound to me.”
He huffed out a small laugh that held no humor in it.
“But I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, okay?” And he meant every word of his promise. Whether he was talking about staying here perched at the side of the bed until she fell asleep, or that he wasn’t going anywhere in general, it was difficult to tell. Perhaps he meant both. Deep down, he knew he did. But right now, he could just sit here and keep her company while she drifted off.
“Come here, let me tell you a story.” Cyran shifted closer to her, still holding her hand. How long had it been since he’d been perched in this position, crooning old storybook tales to someone? He used to do this for Marlow, back when she had difficulty falling asleep. She’d always had odd sleep cycles, and strange dreams that plagued her whenever she managed to get rest. He used to sit with her, just like this, to ease her off to dreamland.
“There once was a young girl with an evil stepmother…”
In a soft, low voice, Cyran wove for her an old fairytale he had memories from his youth - of a half-elven farm girl and her father, and the jealous stepmother who placed a curse on her that forced her to turn into a great, avian beast under the heat of the sun. A curse which only true love would break. The girl wandered for nights aimlessly in search of someone who could love her as she was under the moonlight and take care of her mindless bestial form in the daylight. But after years of being taken advantage of, and feared, and treated as a monster, she decided to climb a mountain far away, where she could not hurt anyone. And high up in the air, so close to the sun she so despised that turned her into a horrible creature, she learned that it was actually quite wonderful to fly. And that the sun’s warmth felt good on her feathers. And in loving herself, she never learned to cure the curse - but she no longer saw it as one.
A story of self love and acceptance, and learning to live with yourself as you are. It was not the kindest or prettiest story, but it was one of survival. It felt… like the right thing to tell at this moment. Not that he thought Del would hear much of it anyways. But he would sit there and tell her the story long after she fell asleep, until his throat was hoarse and he drifted off into rest himself.
He didn’t let go of her hand.
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Post by Delaela Fenastra-Asiliari on Jul 20, 2023 22:33:12 GMT -5
"Y'are too." she insists with a little grumble, ever willful-- but more importantly, determined to let him now she meant it. Del was aware she was drunk, but she was never one to say things she didn't mean... Even if it was to her immense embarrassment later. In any case, it was important, for some reason, that he knew she was serious.
Her eyes flutter, and then open to look at him dubiously; stuck with him? Why should he be sorry for that? "I'm not sorry," she mumbles stubbornly. When he shifts closer, her body naturally gravitates towards his, leaning against him as her eyes close and open slowly, trying to focus on the features of his face. Was he always this handsome? Almost definitely, but at the moment, he looked like he had stars in his eye. "You're the best. Don' wanna be stuck with anyone else."
It was true, too. She'd never once questioned why it was her and Cyran that had been bound together, the ritual they had stepped into binding them soul to soul. Perhaps that was an oversight on her part, but it had felt so natural, even from the beginning, that even the thought of this unknown thing was... exhilarating, instead of anxiety inducing, to meet someone who embraced the darkness as she did. He could see her, even in the darkness. In spite of how it smothered her.
Hearing he wasn't planning to go anywhere seems to appease her stubbornness. She settles in, heavy lids drifting, dragged down by the lyrical sound of his voice and the softness of his words. It was a lovely story, Del feeling indignant on behalf of the young girl of the story-- what a terrible step-mother, to curse her so. But she cannot be mad for too long; the story he weaves is beautiful. A some point, her eyes close, but she feels wide awake as Cyran's story paints a picture for her on the inside of her lids. Her cheek pressed against his cool shoulder, her mind filled with visions of soaring under the warmth of the sun, Del slowly drifts off into a pleasant sleep, her hand still knitted with his, ring to ring.
Followed by a terrible plummet to the earth on her wings of wax the following morning.
Del was not quite awake yet, lost somewhere in the haze between slumber and wakefulness. Still clothed from the night before, rumpled, messy save for where he had so kindly cleaned up her make-up muddled face, she did not want to fully wake up. There was a dream, she was married to the most wonderful man in the world and they were flying together. Already the dream was fading... already she could feel the terrible ache that saturated her whole body, and that would spoil... everything else.
She utters a groan of protest against the act of waking up, burrowing her face deeper against her pillow-- Cyran's chest-- trying to resist the invading army that was starting to march in her head by sheer willpower alone. She pulls him a little closer, a quiet whimper muffled against his shirt, as she fights the incoming hangover.
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Jul 22, 2023 14:37:38 GMT -5
Cyran was traditionally a light sleeper. His own rest was something closer to meditation than true sleep, and aided by the fact that he hadn’t had a drop to drink the night before after his initial glass celebrating their newfound friendship with the Zirona family, he was especially quick to wake up in the morning.
Del, on the other hand…
Cyran was roused by the sensation of something burrowing into his chest. Something warm, and solid, burying head into cloth as if to block out any light. Cyran’s eyes cracked open, the solid black one hidden underneath a wall of hair as he glanced down at her. She let out a pained whimper, trying to stave off the feeling of pain pounding against her skull, demanding to be invited in.
“Oh, Del…” He breathed, moving to brush her curls back and get a look at her face, as if he would be able to see any physical manifestation of her pain. Worry wormed his way into her chest, thinking about how odd she’d been acting last night. Her fear triggering an upset stomach, her recitation of ancient elven poetry he still didn’t understand. And then there was the question of how much she remembered. Could she recall the names he whispered to her while he held her hair back, or the assurances she’d given him, eyes drunk with something he was too scared to call adoration? He didn’t want to ask.
She’d helped them gather vital information on the people they were set to protect, but he didn’t like that it had left her so sick. As he stirred, vulnerability, their mission, was the last thing on his mind. He almost didn’t want to move, but there was still much that needed to be done. Del wouldn’t be able to do much of anything today. And if she insisted on it, Cyran would just have to make sure she got the bed rest she needed.
Greatly reluctant to rouse her, Cyran nudged her in the shoulder. “How bad is your headache on a scale of one to ten?” He asked, his voice as soft as he could manage. “I hate to move you, but I need to get up. If you roll as slowly as you can to the side, I’ll cover you up. You’re in no condition to be moving around.”
He waited for her to comply, brushing off any protests he might receive about her state of being until he was free to move around once more. When he did, he didn’t bother lighting the lamps. Del was doubtlessly light sensitive right now, and the last thing he wanted was to exacerbate her conditions. He shrugged on a gray, simple tunic, uncaring of how unkempt he look, and slipped on a pair of trousers and boots. He wouldn’t be out for very long. “I’ll be right back.” He promised Del, slipping out through their bedroom door and making sure to lock it behind him and slip his brass key in his pocket. The hallway was silent as he moved, though Cyran wasn’t paying much attention to his surroundings. He was more focused on the task at hand - finding Del some food and water to put on her stomach and ease her headache.
As he made his way to the dining hall, though, Cyran noticed something… odd. There were even fewer people than usual eating at tables, and the few he could see were shuffling around with grim faces. And on either side of the door to the entrance was a guard, strapped in leather armor and clutching a blade and a halberd respectively, each bearing the crest of Sol City branded into leather breastplates. One of them stopped him as he entered, holding a hand up.
Cyran obeyed.
“What’s the matter, officers?” He asked, polite - the picture of a genial man who had nothing to hide and a hungover wife to return to.
The guard with the halberd spoke first. “We need to conduct a body check for any weapons. Standard procedure, of course.”
Cyran arched a brow but complied nonetheless, sticking his arms out in the air by his sides in a T shape. The guard with the sword approached, patting down his torso and arms, but he would find nothing. Cyran was unarmed. He didn’t need to be armed to be dangerous. Once they were satisfied, they took a step back, allowing him entry to the mess hall. Cyran tucked his hands in his pockets, fixing the two a look of casual curiosity. “This hadn’t happened since I’ve been on board. What exactly is this procedure for?”
The two shared a look before Halberd spoke again. “Nothing you need to worry about. Carry on, sir.”
Which meant that Cyran very much needed to worry about it.
He took a step forward, placing a hand on Halberd’s shoulder. The soldier stiffened, but clearly didn’t perceive the squishy, half-dressed noble as enough of a threat to do something about it. Putting on his best haughty inflection, one he still wore like an ill-fitting tunic, Cyran spoke. “I think I deserve to have an idea of what’s going on when you’re going about frisking people for weapons, hmm? What do you expect to find?”
But the guard was not one of the attendants, who were so easily rattled by a single, razor-sharp gray eye boring into them for answers. He merely glowered at Cyran, brushing the elf’s hand off with a leather glove. “Eat your breakfast and return to your room, sir.”
Cyran stared at him for a long time.
Then his lips broke out into a serene smile.
“I didn’t mean to offend.” He murmured, dropping the matter entirely. It didn’t matter if he pressed the guard further, because he’d already gotten everything he needed from that single point of contact.[1]
He’d seen briefings from the guard’s captain the night of the play and the botched assassination. He saw firsthand all the security checks that the guards had undergone to ensure that there wasn’t a mole or an impostor amongst them… and more importantly, he’d seen the emergency meeting held in the small hours of this morning, and the announcement that an attendant had been found dead on the deck in the middle of the night.
A young, human attendant.
Cyran pursed his lips as he made his way to procure food from the chefs, who looked equally as perturbed by the guard presence as the nobles. The peaceful, loving atmosphere had been burst as if by a pin. No one had seen the body, and the guards were so intent on covering it up that no one but the staff knew about it. But everyone could feel it, this awful distrust in the air. Most of all Cyran, who was acutely aware of the fact that someone they’d been in close contact with only hours before had just been offed. Had it been because of them? Had he and Del been made already?
He had a sinking feeling in his stomach that someone had just flipped over an hourglass, and each granule of sand that sunk to the bottom brought them ever-closer to the end of this hunt.
Cyran hurriedly grabbed a tray full of food, everything from eggs to fried potatoes to crepes that would hopefully soak up any remaining alcohol, as well as two cups containing both coffee and water. Balancing the tray precariously in his hands, he stalked through the silent halls back to their room. When he returned, he had to balance the tray in one hand to slowly unlock the door, finding the room thankfully unchanged since his departure. Cyran shut the door behind him, taking great care to lock it behind them. Shutting the rest of the outside world out for as long as he could.
“Breakfast in bed.” He announced softly, moving to place the tray in her lap, pressing his hand to her forehead to gauge her temperature and ensure that there was no fever after she’d imbibed so much alcohol the night before. Voice a murmur, he continued, “Don’t move too fast getting up, take it nice and slow. Can I get you anything?”
Cyran bent down to grab the water and offer it to her, helping her drink if the migraine was so bad she couldn’t move. Keeping his eyes trained in his lap, he spoke. “Thank you for what you did last night. I’m not sure how much you remember, but we managed to weasel a little more information about Virion. I think I know who sent the assassin after him. You didn’t have to make yourself so sick, but you did.” He almost sounded awestruck, as if he couldn't believe someone would go to such lengths to help him. “I don’t know how I can repay you.” 1. Reveal Truth
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Post by Delaela Fenastra-Asiliari on Jul 25, 2023 23:20:07 GMT -5
Through the remaining haze of sleep she was clinging to, Del heard Cyran say her name, a sympathetic, murmur of a sound that made her want to burrow deeper. He was worried for her, brushing her hair out of her face with such tenderness that it made her stomach flip. He was worried? But why was he worried? She was fine.
Then she opened her eyes and the room immediately started spinning like a child's toy, forcing Del to remember her life choices that had led to Cyran being worried about her. Her mouth was cotton dry, her stomach tying knots, her body aching, and her eyes themselves throbbing. She promptly shut them again.
Maybe, perhaps, she was less than fine.
He touched her shoulder and she scruched up her face-- his voice was soft, balm like, but the army in her head was approaching now and they had a band with them, several percussionists who were very enthused about their cymbals. How bad was her headache? "Yes." It was 'yes' bad. That seemed astute enough for the situation.
"Mmmnnnooo." she grumbles a token protest, but ultimately cannot, does not, wish to stop Cyran as he needs to rise. His bargain is a sweet one, too... but he is so nice and cool! Her feverish head does not wish to give up the contact.
--Gods, she should be embarrassed, relying on him like this, draping over him like some drunk youth who could not take care of themselves. What must he think of her, being so wholly unprofessional? At the very least, he was being wonderfully sweet about it.
Gathering her strength, she slides off him delicately, scootching back in a way that was gentle and careful, but nonetheless sent her head reeling with the spins. She tried to crack open her eyes to watch him go about his routine of getting ready, try to find the words to apologise for her condition, but he was moving... fast, too fast for her to properly address. Dust and ash, she had really done a number on herself this time. What was in that wine?
He promises her to be right back and she forces her eyes open long enough to give Cyran a bleary, worried look of her own. She should be out there with him, not trapped here in bed while the world span so fast it tried to eject her off its surface. "Be safe," Del manages to croak, watching him leave. Closing her eyes for a moment, just to rest them.
It felt like only a moment later when opened them again with a snap, hearing the door swing open. She started to lift her leaden head, only a centimetre off the pillow where she had sunken into like some illgotten shipwreck-- it was Cyran. Thank goodness. --Dust and ash, he was back quickly, though, wasn't he? He had only been gone a few seconds. "Welcome back," she whispers, her voice hoarse and raspy. Del closes her eyes when his cool hand rests on her forehead, resisting this time the urge to lean into his touch. She was warm, clammy, certainly ill, but part of that had to be dehydration at this point.
Though smelling what Cyran had brought back with him, she puts the time dilation from her mind quickly. The smell is both enticing and repulsive. Her stomach gnaws greedily on itself and simultaneously flips in protest.
"I-- water, please," she murmurs, dry swallowing around a thickness in her throat. It's what she can stomach at the moment. As gently as she can, she shifts slightly to sit up against the pillows, but that in and of itself is extremely taxing. She lays her head back down on the cushions with a tired huff. What a disaster she was.
"You didn't have to...," she murmurs, a little awestruck herself by all that was on the tray before her as she allows him to help her lift the glass of water to her lips for a careful sip. Cold and perfect. She shivers, wanting to guzzle it down, but knows better. He had said to take it slow, after all. "Thank you for bringing all of this... it looks delicious. Or it will once I can actually see it properly." she exhales, leaning back against the pillows with heavy lids and a slow blink.
What did she remember of last night, though? An excellent question. Del furrows her brow, frowning as she struggles to remember through the previous night's haze of alcohol. "I... threatened someone." she said slowly. What else. "I won at cards. Something about 'wife-knife'. I..." Her eyes open a little wider, as she does remember a few things. The... idea of dangling off his shoulders by her arms, clinging to him as he helped her walk, talking nonsense words, showering him with compliments--
Oh she had made a right fool of herself, hadn't she.
"Eep."
Del clears her throat. "I... I apologise, if anything I did or said while in that state made you in any way uncomfortable--" She pauses, as the rest of Cyran's words catch up to her in her sluggish mind. "R-repay me?" she blinks at him, astounded, before breaking into a quiet little laugh. Del lifts the glass of water slightly. "You don't owe me anything, but I think you've done plenty of that, my Rogue. I didn't..." she looks down at the glass for a second, unsure of what to say. Her fingers toy with the condensation on the exterior. "I didn't intend to have to, ah, make you... look after me. I haven't gotten myself in a situation like that in some time. And you looked after me. Looked out for me, even when I--" She cuts herself off with a grimace, squeezing her eyes shut, remembering throwing up over the side of the boat. Del puts her face in her palm and immediately regrets the jarring movement, groaning "Ow," as she realizes her blunders. "--even when I was sick all over the side of the boaaat, grrmllghbllghh. Hhgh." She lifts her eyes again slowly, sighing away her embarrassment as she looks to Cyran. Her vision is still swimming.
...He still looks as lovely as he did last night, she thinks.
"--the point is, you went out of your way to make sure I was comfortable and looked after. And you've continued to do so." It takes some effort, but she lifts the water to her lips, leaning back against all the pillows to use as a back rest so she can recline. "I haven't... I can't remmeber the last time anyone has done that for me. You don't owe me a thing, Cyran. Thank you for looking after me. Even though I was a handful and a half?" she lifts her brow, smiling crookedly.
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Jul 26, 2023 10:54:56 GMT -5
Cyran pursed his lips as Del could not rate her pain, simply murmuring yes in response. Considering she was the kind of person who generally tended to shrug off her pain, both emotional and physical, hearing her merely admit that she was in pain with no preamble, no trying to cover it up. It was simply bad. That set off alarm bells in his mind, anxiety churning in the back of his chest. All the more reason he had to get up and grab supplies for her, despite her protests otherwise. She mumbled a weak denial, not wanting to move most likely - not that she wanted to continue laying here with him. Cyran cracked a small smile, giving her a soft, reassuring pat on the shoulder.
“Sorry. I don’t want to move you - you’ll get to lay still in a moment. I’m just worried that you might have a fever.” He murmured, still keeping his voice low as not to disturb her. Mentally, he made sure to add a cool cloth to his list of items to grab. He made haste getting himself ready to head to the mess hall, just barely catching her wishes to be safe as he closed the door behind him and cloaked her in the cool darkness.
She was still in the same position when he returned, still. Though at the sound of the door creaking, she tried lifting her head to look at him - Cyran shook his head, holding up a hand. “Don’t get up, it’s just me. Keep your head still. No sudden movements.” He set the tray down on her lap, checking her temperature. Del was clammy, unsurprisingly - beads of sweat clung to her temple, a sign that even existence was an effort as her body flushed out the liquor she’d imbibed the night before. He couldn’t hide his frown, concerned. In all likelihood she would be fine after a day of rest, food, and water to purge this from her system, but he’d not seen a hangover this severe before. Even the simple act of trying to push herself up to drink water was taxing on her. He could feel her frustration through their bond, the feeling of inadequacy, of why couldn’t she move at the edges of his consciousness.
Cyran put a hand on her shoulder once more - a gentle movement, but a firm one. Fixed her with a look, equal parts worry mixed with an air of finality that only a father could muster. “I’m serious… don’t force yourself to move. Please. I am more than happy to feed you.” It was the least he could do, after all. She relented, likely too tired and too pained to bother fighting the help. She drank like a traveler in the desert who’d found an oasis - but with the restraint of someone who knew they’d get sick if they tried it on. Cyran snaked a gentle hand to cradle the back of her head and her neck to support her so she didn’t have to bear her own weight as she struggled to take little sips. Even that much seemed to exhaust her…
He set the glass aside for now, picking up the coffee he’d grabbed and taking a sip for himself. The bitter notes of caffeine burned his tongue, the scent of black coffee filling the air. He thought he remembered the scent of coffee helped with nausea. Or perhaps that was onions. He couldn’t remember. “I’ll help you eat when you’re ready, too.” He promised.
She grimaced, clockwork gears turning in her mind, trying to piece together what happened last night. Remembering the things she’d said… nearly assaulting that now-deceased attendant. The reminder sobered him up as to what their current situation was. He opened his mouth to speak, perhaps warn her about what he’d learned earlier, when her eyes snapped open and she let out a little noise of surprise that sounded somewhere between a mouse’s squeak and the cry of a bird. He huffed out a surprised laugh at the sound, and Del’s profuse apologies for her actions the nights before.
“You didn’t do anything to make me uncomfortable.” He assured her. “Don’t worry. He didn’t understand he was being threatened and the situation didn’t escalate… and as for the wife-knife comment, I thought it was a rather clever moment of wordplay in an otherwise inebriated state.”
For a moment he wondered if he should voice that Del’s activity almost reminded him of taking care of a rambunctious toddler, which he’d done quite a bit of in his day. But bringing that up opened another Avenue of aches and pains, wounds he didn’t want to particularly relive. Instead, he settled on returning to the topic at hand. “And, as for… the other stuff, I’m sure was just residual of our cover.” Never mind that drunk words were sober thoughts. Never mind that she’d slipped and called him Cyran. “And I do owe you. You’ve done all this to help me on a mission that wasn’t rightfully yours. You did this to get information from someone, and now you’re suffering for it. I could never have asked such a thing of you. And it was no surprise you were sick… you drank quite a bit, and the sea was choppy. It must have triggered some bad memories for you.” He went quiet then, thinking of the ancient elvish poem. The words of endearment slurred in dwarvish. Her guarded demeanor against the attendant and her complete comfort with him.
Del spoke up once more, bringing Cyran out of his thoughts regarding last night’s events. He tilted his head, her sincere thanks touching him in a way that made his chest feel like mush. As did the admission that she’d not had others want to take care of her so wholly in the past she could remember. It was a sad existence. It was a true one. Cyran knew what that felt like, in an entirely different way.
“It is never a handful to take care of someone you care about.” He said firmly. “It is a privilege.” Because it meant you actually had someone to take care of in the first place, that there were others in your life worth watching and loving - in the platonic sense, of course. The point was that Cyran wanted to help her, because it gave reality to something that he’d only dreamed of having, back in the days before his exile, when he had nothing but the birds to keep him company.
A friend.
Since his exile he’d made a few. Zarius, Caedes, Vi’ira, Gerhart, and others that he cared about like his own children. Iryla. Cirice. Seiya. Oriole. Andromeda. His fast companionship with Del, though, was something he hadn’t expected. A surprise, a gift of the shadows, and sometimes he still feared that he might wake up and he’d find he’d lost everything. But he hadn’t. Del was still here, despite it all.
“So, no. Not a handful and a half.” Cyran pulled himself out of his thoughts, grabbing a fork from the plate and scooping up a piece of food. “Now. Breakfast?”
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Post by Delaela Fenastra-Asiliari on Aug 3, 2023 16:00:49 GMT -5
The gentle touch on the back of her neck as Cyran delicately braces her head brings a new sensation of stomach-flipping, frantic... something that seemed to come with his contact. It wasn't unwelcome-- far from it-- and perhaps that was the cause. She wasn't worried about him bringing her harm, but, rather, appearing weak before someone she respected. Admired. He was so damnably tender with her, a gentleness she could scarcely comprehend. It wasn't out of pity, either. Empathy and sympathy, maybe, but he did not look at her as lesser for her... slip.
She nods slowly, swallowing. Yes. Of course. Simply bits of residual cover. That was all it was.
But even to her own ears, that did not quite ring true.
And even then, he was insistent on owing her for her service to their cause. She gives him a gentle look of amusement, touched by his persistence of his argument that she had been so instrumental. He... truly didn't want her to feel bad or embarrassed. "Ahhh, maybe," She says quietly, thinking about the disturbance of the waves. "Maybe a combination of factors. I don't think I would be... ill if I were in a more normal state." Del arches her brow a little. "But it was rightfully mine. I agreed to be here, to come with you to help. This is my mission too, Cyran. And I would do anything to see it through, and make it easier on you. That's what partners do." Heat hits her cheeks then, realizing her loose tongue was conflating things again. "We're working on a task together, and that makes us partners."
Saved it.
The words he uttered next, that it wasn't a handful to care for someone that was cared about, that it was a privilege, makes her feel dizzy again. He's still close, close enough to help and assist her hands in eating, in helping her eat. She looks down at her hands for a moment, internally squirming. Part of her wanted to resist... but knew that pride had no place here, especially not now. Cyran had helped her and cared for her. The least she could do was allow him to do so.
"Okay," she agrees, lifting her head with a small, tentative smile. "If you insist. Though if I ever get the chance to return the favour, understand I will in a heartbeat." Del leans back on the pillows, allowing Cyran to help feed her a few bites of food; it's all she can stomach at the moment, but it was on her stomach, and that was something.
She looks at him blearily as Cyran helps to feed her in her condition. How lucky was she to meet such a person so willing, so intent, on caring for others this way? It was more than she deserved... but maybe, she could enjoy it anyway. If that was allowed.
"You came back quickly. Not a large line at the buffet?" she inquires between bites, curious about how quickly he had seemed to return.
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Aug 6, 2023 13:16:19 GMT -5
He fell silent and listened while Del insisted she was doing what she thought was right, her actions were her own. That much was the truth… he supposed he’d been treating her a bit like fragile glass all because he’d been the one to ask her on this outing, not the other way around. Treating her like a plus one rather than a partner because he wanted to be the one to bear the guilt. But she was her own adult, and she’d said it herself when he told her about the mission he’d been hired to undertake.
That's why I'm coming with you. I would follow you into hell, if that was what was needed. And to be honest; this does sound a bit like hell.
He’d known them to be true, even if he did not know how deep that well of trust ran at the time. Even though Del had not been hired with him, this was as much her task as his own. And she wanted to help, and she was an adult. Not a child he had to coddle or protect. She deserved to be treated as an equal.
“Of course. Partners.”
The word was spoken like someone who’d never once had a partner to speak of in this way.
Equal.
A foreign concept. Cyran didn’t linger on those thoughts for long as Del finally relented, allowing him to feed her. Little bites, not more than she could stomach, but enough to let the food settle and give her the energy to combat this headache. He offered her a small, hesitant smile in return when she threatened - no, promised - that she would one day return the favor. Another daunting prospect. But she’d allowed him in, when trust was a difficult concept for the both of them. “I look forward to it.”
At the mention of the buffet, though, he sobered. Cyran knew that he could not avoid speaking of work forever. But he’d hoped to at least… postpone it, perhaps. To let themselves live in this bubble of fake matrimony for a few moments longer. Why would he want that? Not a question to examine now. Del had asked, which meant this illusion of husband and wife, so real and yet shrouded behind a layer of illusion that Cyran could not fully discern what was real and what was fake, was over for the time being.
He straightened, setting the food down when Del had had enough, and wiped his hands on a napkin.
“It’s a… long story.” He mumbled.
“To start I should probably let you know what I learnt last night, thanks to your actions. It seems that Virion and his father-in-law disagree on how business matters should be run. Whether this is an intentional manipulation or not, it seems that he and Layla are making their way to Sol City so that they may renew their vows, where Layla will transfer full inheritance of the company to him. He’s dipping his hands into the weapons trade… I have reason to believe that my client wants him alive so that weapons trade continues.”
And Layla’s father wanted him dead so that didn’t continue to happen.
But who had he hired? Cyran, admittedly, rarely worked with others in his trade. He’d always stuck to himself. He acknowledged them but that did not mean he had to like them. Unfortunately, that left him woefully unprepared as to who they were dealing with. A master of disguise, who swapped faces like masks. Could be anyone and anywhere, and yet, they’d been watching the two somehow.
Cyran sighed again. It seemed that noise was all he was capable of at the moment.
“After we left the card games we made our way to the main deck to return to the cabin. That was where we had the encounter with the attendant. You didn’t trust him, and he didn’t seem to understand the threat, thankfully. Just in case I removed his memory of the event. But this morning, there were guards at the buffet, frisking guests for weapons. As it turns out, the servant that we’d spoken to last night was found dead on the deck.”
He paused, allowing the gravity of their situation to settle in. They’d still yet to get any closer to their target, and all the while that unseen force was inching closer to them. They needed to find some answers, do something.
“I don’t know if they suspect us, or what they might have questioned the servant for - but he wouldn’t have given them anything. He wouldn’t remember.” It was a close call… too close for his liking. Cyran pursed his lips, troubled thoughts brewing in his mind as he mulled over what to do.
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Post by Delaela Fenastra-Asiliari on Aug 12, 2023 13:17:34 GMT -5
Del watches-- squints, more accurately, since her vision was still swimming-- as Cyran pauses, growing somber suddenly at her question, a brief bit of... wistfulness, as though a moment had just passed that was bittersweet in its absence. Perhaps that was her just... misreading the feelings that slipped between them in her connection in the midst of her hangover.
She does her best to listen to the full debrief; one part of her brain was parsing all this information and knew it was important. The other part knew there was not much she could do about it at the moment, not in her state. But it was troubling-- at least the hangover wasn't for naught, but the matter at hand meant someone had quite a lot of motivation to not allow this deal to progress, even at the expense of a life. And one had already been taken, thanks to her. The threat she had made, someone had made good on. Shit. Del closes her eyes, feeling conflicted over having indirectly caused the death of someone who was ostensibly innocent. Guilt later.
"Whoever they hired, they seem to be escalating." Del murmurs, sinking back into the pillows a little further. "They're drawing a lot of attention to themselves and making enough of a scene that theres more scrutiny than ever before. It's only made their job harder. Ours too, probably." Del huffs. It wasn't ideal, but there wasnt much to be done about it. "If the assassin is suspicious of us, we will probably be next to be approached the way the attendant was... or perhaps they would throw suspicion on us to keep us out of the way. We need to... maintain alibis. Corroborated by others on the ship to make sure we can't ever be unaccounted for. I don't know if they know it's us, but I think they are likely suspicious of us for being so close to their target."
Had he had a chance to rest as well? Between caring for her and doing this work, worrying over whether they'd been made, how was he resting? Cyran was a grown man who could care for himself, but it was... important to her.
"I think..." She adjusts herself with a wince, shifting slightly to make a little room beside her, "That there's not a whole lot we can do about it at the moment. Things need to die down a little before we can progress. And you have been working... extremely hard." She huffs the last words, a press in her brow a protest against the throbbing of her head, and she shivers, a little feverish still. Ugh. Del reaches out her hand to cover his, her touch trembling a little. "Have you eaten yet? You spent the past night looking after me, on top of taking on the investigating and clearing that attendant's memory. I think you saved us, doing that. I can't help but feel a little guilty that you've worked so hard and haven't had as much rest. Will you rest?" She grimaces, closing her eyes for a second. "Is it warm, or is that me?"
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Aug 12, 2023 18:36:51 GMT -5
Back to work once more… the bubble of serenity had been popped, Del so sick in bed yet so intent as she listened to him relay what he’d learnt, intermittently sipping at coffee while he explained the circumstances of murder and politics. A horrible amalgamation of death and domesticity.
“It was only a matter of time before they wizened up to the fact that someone was after them. Or at least, in opposition of their mission.” He murmured in agreement. It did strike him as strange that the other assassin was acting so… rashly. Both of their assassination attempts thus far had been public affairs. It was a determination that bordered on reckless, almost as if the assassin had been tasked with not only killing him, but sending a message. Teaching someone a lesson. If Cyran was right that this was a contract killer from Virion’s father-in-law, then there was something incredibly spiteful in that act.
But perhaps… there was also something they could exploit.
“Don’t worry about alibis so far. I think we’ve been solid… only suspicious on the grounds that we’ve been closely associated with the very people they were sent to kill.” Cyran sounded thoughtful as he replied, the beginnings of a plan already forming in his head. Thus far, the Zironas had been fine even when Cyran and Del haven’t had eyes on them. But as the saying went, once was a coincidence. Twice was a pattern. The ball. The play. Public events. When was the next one? The pair had reviewed the schedule with a fine-toothed comb before this outing. In the coming days, there was supposed to be a springtime festival and fireworks show. Supposedly, they would be passing a chain of pseudo-islands, mostly just landmasses and rocky outcroppings containing waterfalls. A scenic landscape where the ship would slow its pace to enjoy the natural scenery and make merry with a display of magical explosives with a night-long celebration under the moon.
Until then, he doubted that the assassin would make any moves against the Zironas, at least. If they approached the husband and wife, then that was only a chance for Cyran and Del to take them out beforehand.
He opened his mouth to protest the movement, but Del was merely shifting in bed to make more space for him to sit. The very action seemed to pain her.
“All of this work just to hurry up and wait.” Cyran let out a humorless laugh. “But… I agree.” For once, the best thing they could do was lay low and cover their tracks, and enjoy the amenities while keeping an eye on the Zirona family. He stared at the wall, deep in thought until a warm hand touched his own, startling him out of his reverie. He allowed himself to be held, startled by the question. When was the last time that he’d eaten? There was the game of cards last night, where he’d had a glass of wine but not much else on his stomach. He didn’t think he’d eaten at the dance, too green with something he didn’t dare call envy - because it was protectiveness, how could he be jealous of a relationship he didn’t have? - but no, he hadn’t eaten then, either. It must have been during breakfast yesterday.
“I had a little bit of eggs… yesterday morning…” He rubbed at the back of his neck with his free hand, avoiding her gaze, knowing the lecture he would be receiving if her head was not preventing her from yelling at him. “As I said, it truly was not that much of a big deal. It’s no effort on my end to erase that memory, and even less to look after you. Banish that guilt. I’ve had plenty of rest.”
Almost as if on cue, his empty stomach let out a noise that startled even him.
“… I suppose I could eat a little.”
At her query, Cyran reached out and brushed his fingers against her forehead. Still didn’t feel like a fever… he thought. She was admittedly warmer than a regular person. Brows knitting together in concern, he opened his mouth, unsure of what he was about to say. That he could help keep her cool? What a ridiculous and creepy notion! Just because they had to share a bed didn’t mean he had to force her to be close to him: rethinking it, he closed his mouth and shut his eyes.
“Here. Let me get a cool towel for you.” He didn’t wait for an answer before disappearing into the bathroom for a few moments. When he returned, he was no longer in his disguise, but his sleepwear, with his hair tied into a loose braid. He said nothing, but the change of clothes was answer enough.
Okay. It sounds like we could both use the day off… at the very least it would give him the opportunity to keep an eye on Del while she wasn’t feeling well, rather than leaving her alone and at the mercy of anyone that might wish to pay her a visit.
“Here.” He laid the cloth over her forehead and pulled himself back into bed. The meal had been for her, but he had a feeling she might force him to eat herself if he didn’t get something on his stomach. He took a small bite of a pastry, leaning back on a pillow. “Is that better?” He turned his attention to her, hoping that the cloth at least lessened the nausea somewhat.
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Post by Delaela Fenastra-Asiliari on Aug 22, 2023 1:37:03 GMT -5
Her eyes fly open, incredulous. Yesterday morning! She feels a little tingle of guilt; she had been so focused on the mission, allowed herself to slip and have him care for her at the expense of himself, that he had scarcely eaten over the course of the past few days. Clearly, she was not pulling her equivalent weight in this... partnership. Even as he gently chides her to banish the guilt, a sweet reassurance that she need not fret for him, she starts to fix herself with as much stubbornness as she could summon--
And then his stomach growls, cutting off either of their arguments in either direction. The corners of her mouth lift in a small smile as he admits that he could eat, a little. "Perhaps more than a little, by the s--"
The words evaporate on her tongue as Cyran touches her forehead, cool fingers brushing her warm skin-- not warmer than usual, only the after effects of processing more alcohol than she had any business consuming. Then again, it's his fingers that bring heat to her face, a delicate caress of care and concern. The lids of her eyes flutter a little, risisting the urge to lean towards the touch-- how untoward that would be, when he was simply checking on her condition, diligent as always. But then, the slight press of his brow, his mouth opened with a pause, makes her think he is about to ask or suggest something, a hesitation in the thoughts swirling through his mine... Before she can enquire, though, he seems to decide, promising her a cold towel. "Ah-- thank you," she murmurs, but he has already absconded, escaping to the washroom for a moment or two to procure what he promised. Del lets herself sink a little more into the pillow, closing her eyes again as she tried to quell the sudden butterflies in her stomach. Signs she was still ill, maybe.
His return was quick-- and heartening, seeing Cyran now in a state of relaxation, rather than his formal Ilias-wear he had previously donned. She exhales with quiet relief as he presses the cold compress to her forehead, but his presence, tucking himself back into bed with her... dust and ash, but that was even more of a balm than the cool cloth. When had she become so needy that she found such comfort by the presence of someone else?
...Was it such a bad thing?
It might have been, if Cyran was not willing to spend time with her in such a way. And yet, for her, he made exception after exception. Still, she could not deny that his presence was such a relief, that having him near was... good. It was odd to rely on anyone other than herself in times of such vulnerability. Here, though... it seemed to come naturally to accept it.
"That feels better. Thank you, Cyran." Del's eyes crack open as she watches him take the tiny bite of the pastry. She gives him a flat look, bemused in spite of herself. "It would be even better if you ate the whole pastry, my Rogue." she murmurs, her voice a little hoarse, but light and teasing. Her head tilts against the pillow, thinking. "If you eat that, I will have a few more bites of breakfast and promise to lie still and not try to exert myself at all today. Deal?"
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Aug 28, 2023 7:48:49 GMT -5
… And now he could feel the surge of incredulity through their bond at what he’d eaten. Cyran shrugged, only somewhat sheepish. He’d not meant to worry her, but such an intermittent fasting and eating schedule was something he was used to. He was usually just so focused that eating was not a priority. A stray thought occurred to him that perhaps if Del had been around as his partner, she would not have allowed him to develop such habits. Such an odd thing to cross his mind. Even calling Del his partner, considering her someone that he could lean on through thick and thin, and knowing that he could trust his gut - that was something entirely novel to him. This sensation of… he didn’t want to call it weakness, but it almost was. Like Del had broken him down to his basest parts to examine him and build him up better with a keen carpenter’s eye. Alright. If she wanted him to eat, he would obliged. Only because she’d asked it of him, though. But first, making sure she was comfortable. That much was an instinct he would not break. Though he’d never struggled or wanted for food while raising Marlow, it was all too easy for one to build the habit of waiting to feed her and ensure that she was taken care of before eating himself. Was it just his imagination, or did her cheeks seem to grow even more flushed as he was gauging her temperature? Just to double check - he swore, that was the only reason - Cyran put his palms against her cheeks too, a gentle touch. Warm. Just as he suspected, her body was overheating to fight off the toxicity of the liquor in her system. Dealing with the assassin could wait. He was already confident he’d established the pattern, and there was no point pushing himself to keep investigating, chasing shadows in dark corners and dead ends when Del was stuck in bed and needed help. Right now her health came first, and she’d requested him to stay. So he would oblige. Cyran made quick work of getting into his casual clothes and pulling himself into bed. A smile grew in the corners of his lips as Del thanked him. “Let me know when it begins to warm up and I’ll go dip it back in the cool water again, okay?”Apparently, though, the cloth did little to stifle the dryness in her look and the no-nonsense in her tone as she called him out for only eating a bite. Cyran stilled, managing a small, fond laugh at her ultimatum. “Well, who am I to argue with a master negotiator?” He murmured, picking the fork up once more, ensuring that she could see him eat every last bite of the pastry - only pausing to raise an eyebrow when he finished. “And now I’ve withheld my end of the bargain. It looks like neither of us is going anywhere today, hmm?” His tone mild, but with a smidge of teasing behind it as he gently nudged her shoulder before settling himself in bed. Only as he did so, though, did Cyran realize the conundrum he was currently in. What the hell did one do while they were in awake bed together? Did he back away to give her space? Did he get close to keep an eye on her temperature? What in the world was the proper etiquette? Cyran bit his lip, hesitantly leaning against his silken pillow, suddenly feeling like he was laying in a den of snakes, where either direction he moved to flee was somehow wrong. In the end, he settled a couple of inches away from her - ready to give her space if Del told him to fuck off, and close enough to feel the temperature radiating off her in waves. So close. Maddeningly so. Every time Cyran closed his eyes the visions of the proximity they’d awoken in, that moment in the gods-damned closet, flashed across his mind. He needed something to take his mind off of this. In the comfortable silence while Del rested, Cyran held his hand out and summoned one of the books from his collection to his open palm, fluttering pages and ink coalescing from the shadows of the dim room. [1] Though Cyran rarely had the time to sit and enjoy a good book, he still managed to keep a collection of them for when he got a moment to himself. Unfortunately, he’d developed a bit of an… embarrassing proclivity for a certain genre since his exile. He couldn’t help it, but morbid curiosity had driven him to pick up a romance book some ages ago - and a single book had developed into a singular, shameful obsession for the romantic and sappy. Perhaps it was because it was something he’d always secretly yearned for, whether he knew it or not. Perhaps it was a nice bit of escapism. Perhaps it was because he was still struggling to understand what Rowan had done to him. But either way, it had populated his library with tomes upon tomes of romance novels, the kind a bored housewife might read. Cyran had started this particular book months ago around Winter’s Crown and had yet to get the opportunity to pick it up since - long enough that he’d forgotten its contents. Cyran closed the cover, skimming the title and cover, only to flush when he saw the art of two women, locked in a passionate embrace on the bow of a ship. The title read, “Commotion of the Ocean.”
Oh, hell. Cyran flipped towards the page he’d last been reading, still determined to let himself get lost in the pages and escape for a few moments… ”And Ophelia knew it was wrong, something in her distantly aware that she should not be making such solicitations of Camarilla. She had to banish the thought! They were partners, first and foremost, members of the elite investigators of Sol City! They had a job to do, and a criminal to catch aboard this very trade vessel! Oh, but that did not mean she did not yearn; for Camarilla’s upbringing on the docks had left her with ample strength in the arms and torso, and it was rather pleasing to see her adorned in a gown rather than her traditional plain clothes. Lovely enough that for one second, Ophelia found herself getting distracted, allowing herself to imagine…” Cyran closed the book and placed it down by his side. That was enough of reading for the day.
1. Summon: possession
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Post by Delaela Fenastra-Asiliari on Sept 6, 2023 0:05:18 GMT -5
Del freezes as both Cyran's hands cup her cheeks, . In her hangover deluded mind, she recalls the play from the other night, of the couple cradling one another's jaws in their hands with reverence, before delivering passionate kiss after kiss, their love searing across their lips with building insistence--
His hands leave her as he goes to get the cloth for her forehead and make himself comfortable for a day in, leaving her with her heart pounding, her angry head spinning, and feeling more painfully sober than ever before.
But soon, he is back, taking care of her, bringing her a cloth... tucking in beside her. "Mmm..." she agrees, nodding mutely-- it's all she is capable of doing at the moment, her skin still burning from where his hands were on her cheeks and her vision still spinning at the edges. Next to her, even a scant few inches away, Del could feel the slight chill trailing off of him, a cool refreshing sensation of closeness that even the damp cloth on her head cannot match.
She should not wish to be closer. Cyran had far better things to do than care for her sorry excuse for a partner-- mission partner, she furiously reminds herself-- more pertinent to finding this assassin and getting rid of their presence once and for all. There was a job to be done. She was wasting his time.
And yet, here he was, doing precisely that, without complaint and insisting it was both his pleasure and was necessary. Del did not feel like a burden under such circumstances, though, perhaps, she ought to-- rather, she felt respected and... perhaps treasured was too strong a word, too much wistfulness and too much of that ache in the centre of her chest. Valued, perhaps.
Her face half buried in a pillow, Del watches Cyran eat, making sure he gets every bite of that pastry down. She felt less like a master negotiator and more as though he was humouring her, but regardless of why he was doing it... he was doing it. Eating, taking a little extra time to care for himself. Relaxing. It was a sight of itself, in this quiet room with only the two of them. Del had been sneaking fleeting glances at him for days now, but now, had the rare opportunity to study him. Not Illias, but Cyran. Wonderful, sweet Cyran.
She blinks. Where had that thought come from?
His voice prompts her to blink again, blearily, realizing he is speaking now for real and she is not merely imagining it. Del gives him a crooked smile, satisfied with the results of her request. "I suppose so." she murmurs, feeling the exhaustion pulling at her again. She really didn't want to sleep; rest was one thing, but sleep was another. Sleep was precious hours and minutes burned to nothing, and... she wanted to enjoy this, she found. What this was, exactly, Del could hardly guess-- she had never had a moment of respite like this before, much less with someone else. It felt domestic, as though they were in bed on a lazy day after a busy week, rain gently thudding the windows, simply content to spend time in one another's company.
And, oh, Del was certainly content.
Realizing she had been daydreaming a little, Del's eyes crack open a little watching him read. From her position, she can only see the back part of the book jacket "What's that about?" she murmurs, leaning a little closer to see if she can get a look at the book where it sits on the bed on the other side of him-- and thudding her forehead into his shoulder as her angry, hungover body quickly gives out on her. ]"...Ow."
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Sept 9, 2023 16:15:52 GMT -5
Cyran startled at the sound of Del’s voice, asking him what he was reading, craning her neck to get a better look at the cover and contents. Cyran stiffened, mouth parting in shock but no words coming out in response to the question - how in the hell did he even explain this? - but he didn’t have to, as Del’s own body betrayed her.
“Oh, careful, careful…” He murmured, moving to cradle the back of her neck to maneuver her head into a more comfortable position. It took a second of readjusting, moving to create what was hopefully a more comfortable pillow out of his shoulder. That way, she could sit near him without having to move and jostle herself. “Better?” He asked, settling himself back against the headrest, running his thumb against the pages of the tome in his lap.
Oh, gods.
There were many things that Cyran was grateful about now that his life was no longer as solitary as it had once been. Back in the day, he had no problems sitting and cracking open a story while he was on the road, because there was no one around to judge him for his… unconventional reading taste. Even Cyran himself was generally embarrassed at the prospect of what he often read in his downtime, but he couldn’t help it. It was, admittedly, nice to fantasize about what it might be like to be swept off his feet. Being his age, with the baggage he carried on his shoulders, Cyran had known for a long time that there likely was not anyone in the world who would be willing to handle what he carried, and had known for even longer that love was not meant for people like him.
Someone who had grown up in a home so broken that he doubted his ability to love others; and whether someone would even want the affections of an assassin whose soul was so fractured from how many times it had been handled and dropped.
Yes, much easier to get lost in the pages of books and imagine. That was far safer.
… Still, it felt weird to admit exactly what he was reading to someone else. It almost felt like putting those sentiments out in the open; not that he didn’t trust Del, far from it. But it was that trust and care that made him so nervous to find out what might happen if he told her that she had a secret fondness for horribly penned and utterly contrived romance novels. At best, she wouldn’t think anything of it. At worst, she’d laugh. Either way, she’d already seen him reading it; there was no point hiding it anymore.
“It is… a book about an undercover mission in the bowels of a pirate ship. A pair of private investigators undercover.” He mulled over his words carefully, choosing to gloss over the fact that the two characters were trying not to fall in love despite the fact that the cover depicted two women in quite the passionate embrace. “I picked it up some months ago, and didn’t think much about it, but it’s a rather funny coincidence now that I’m thinking about it.”
He tilted his head, accidentally spilling long strands of hair all over her face. With a gentle hand, a mindless gesture, he moved to brush it away.
“Do you like to read, Del? While you’re bedridden, I could… read to you, to help pass the time. I know it can be frustrating, cooped up in bed. If you’ve got a particular genre I’ll just grab one of those books and we can sit here, and…” He trailed off, toying with the corner of one of the pages in his hands.
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