“She certainly didn’t get it from me.” Cyran managed a small laugh, sipping at his drink. The mulled wine managed to warm him, but little moreso than the company and conversation did. Hearing about Maruyama, being able to talk about Marlow… they were happy little things. It was usually easy for him to get swept up in the loss of it all, his conversations peppered with grief. He remembered speaking about her once, with Vi’ira, unable to manage even a couple seconds without crying thinking about how he’d failed her. This wasn’t quite like that. “You saw what I was like back in those days. I was an anxious, nervous wreck.”

He shook his head, thinking about that dream Del had visited back aboard the Judeia. Goodness, how she hadn’t met that version of himself and burst out into laughter was a mystery to him. He’d been rather spineless back then… and it was only the events that followed his exile that forced him to grow one.

“I can still be like that, sometimes.” He mused. “You’ll have to ask Iryla about the day we met. We ran afoul of a couple of thugs,” Ones who had recognized Zarius and started trouble, “And we tried to keep her out of the battle. But Iryla is hopelessly stubborn, and decided to throw herself out a second story window to join the action. Landed on a criminal and sprained her ankle. I had a heart attack… stopped in the middle of battle to lecture her on the dangers of defenestration.”

His kids seemed pretty damned determined to give him a heart attack every opportunity they got, it seemed. He supposed some things couldn’t be erased, no matter how hard one tried. Not that he would have it any other way.

He tilted his head to the side as she professed that she had made something for him. To protect himself? And thank him for what? He hadn’t done anything special on that trip. Not anything a friend wouldn’t do, anyways. Perhaps she was talking about her nightmares? Cyran only wished he could do more, but it was impossible to banish what haunted you entirely. He could only alleviate the symptoms wherever he could. Perhaps on this trip, he would get the opportunity to do so once more, if they were going to camp together on the road…

And then Del handed him a dagger.

Cyran’s eyes widened as he stared at the black-leather sheath, turning it over in his hand. It was heavy - far heavy than Spell Slicer and Cold Steel, his favored weapons of choice. But that made this one feel solid in his hands. He unsheathed the blade, turning it over in his hands while he marveled over its wavy surface. Such fine crafstmanship! Cyran owned many daggers of various enchantments, but none quite compared to the make of this one. Experimentally, he spun it beneath his fingers, getting used to the feel of it while Del described the the process of how it was made.

Perfectly balanced. Perfectly constructed.

“This is all so elaborate… you went through all that trouble for me?” Given what he knew about the forging process, a blade that couldn’t be exposed to heat at all must have been a pain in the ass to build. And yet, Del had done so, twice over, for him. And what a fine blade it was. It would take some getting used to using, but a knife that could pierce even the untouchable was something he’d never even considered possible. And she’d given that to him.

She gave you something that you can use to protect yourself from Rowan.

The thought seemed to pierce him in the heart as he ran his finger along the blade, testing its sharpness. A well of blood sprung up along his finger, and he nodded, satisfied, before summoning a handkerchief to wipe the blade clean.

“Oh, Del, this is simply marvelous.” He said, breaking the silence. “You didn’t have to go through so much trouble, but… I cherish this blade. Oh - does it have a name?”

He shifted in his seat, suddenly sheepish.

“I like to give all my daggers names. They are extensions of me, and they deserve monikers. But this one… you made it, so I think, if you wanted to that is, you should be the one to give it a name.”

For some reason that request felt far more intimate than it should… until something occurred to him. It had been a long time since he’d thought about marriage customs or the like, but there was one thing that stuck in his head -

The first step of the courting process.

A ceremonial dagger, to symbolize your trust in one another. With that dagger, you have designated them your savior, and your end… till death do you part.

Oh.

Cyran’s grip tightened on the hilt, mulling the thought over in his mind. Was Del really saying what he thought she was saying? Did she… really want to…

No, it was most likely that Del didn’t have an idea of the ramifications of the gift she’d just given him. And yet, through their bond, he could feel a tinge of nerves, almost as if she was afraid she’d overstepped her bounds…

Oh, gods, was she really? Was this some kind of sign? He briefly wondered if this was too forward, but something about it felt… right. He’d never be so selfish as to take these steps on his own - not without knowing how Del felt about it. But perhaps this was her way of telling him?

Okay. Okay. He could… he could do this. It had been so long since Cyran had been wed, it was easy to not think he was damaged goods. But if it was for Del… if she truly wished this for both of them, then who was he to ever deny her?

Still staring down at this beautiful dagger, this offering, this piece of Del for him, Cyran murmured, “If that’s the way you truly feel, then I accept.”

His heart thrummed, full of anxiety for the future, but excitement, too.

Her head lists gently to one side as Cyran speaks on his anxieties and neuroses-- from where she was standing, he carried himself quite well, even back then, in spite of the danger and constant barrages he must have had to face regularly.

"I don't blame you! Dust and ash," she shakes her head, chuckling wryly at the mental image that conjured. "Some of the things I've seen the kids do-- being a little rowdy on the stairs, sliding down the bannister, running way too fast in the kitchen-- I think if you spend so much time being aware of what in your environment could hurt you, that it becomes really hard to unsee." Her smile brightens a little, thinking about all the wonderful youth that Cyran had come to adopt over the years. "I look forward to meeting Iryla one day. She sounds like a bit of a rascal. Similar to Fish, I think, from how you described her. Someone who grew up much, much too fast, but without the experience of knowing when the're taking a risk?" chuckling again, eyes glinting with mirth, Del leans forward conspiratorially on her elbows towards him. "They're such a character; I told you when we had met while exploring a temple beneath the desert and found that dragon, right? The little scamp spent most of the time trying to convince me to help them steal what we found so they could fence it! I don't think I could call them my child by any rights, not yet anyway, but they are well on their way to giving me an ulcer."

But speaking of anxieties... Her laugher fades as she tries not to watch Cyran too closely when he takes the dagger. No, she doesn't want to watch him-- yes she does. No, it's almost too much, she can feel something alive in her chest practically squirm as this master of blades accepts her dagger and tests it for himself. It felt not dissimilar to when they had exchanged rings on Hearth's Day, an odd sort of vulnerability of giving someone something meaningful. Like exposing a dangerous secret.

Under the weight of his praise, his esteem, she can feel herself start to melt. It was a wonder Frost Gale had any snow left in it at all, she felt impossibly warm. The room was not heated by the fire, but by her fluster, or so she felt. She takes a nervous sip of wine so she can swallow some of the butterflies back down. "You like it? I mean-- yes, ahem. I'm glad you find it... to your taste. It was no trouble at all, I, ah. I wanted to." She finishes a little lamely, but it was the truth. "Your finger, Cyran," Del gives him a look of affectionate incredulity as she reaches across the table to take his hand and inspect the minor wound.

"I don't usually name my weapons," Del says thoughtfully, looking down at his hand as she takes a napkin to help staunch the minor bit of bleeding. That was easier than meeting Cyran's singular gaze, the look in his eye inspiring a song in her soul that reverberated her bones. "I think weapons, like people, have to earn their legends. Buuut since you asked so sweetly..." she flashes him a coy smile before leaning back in the booth to think. What sort of name would be worthy of one of Cyran's daggers. It wasn't just any dagger, after all. It was one that was designed to keep him safe under very specific, special, circumstances.

Her eyes dart to the blade, and a name comes into her mind, the word rolling off her tongue as if it had been there all long. "Wraithsbane." She clears her throat. "Ah, maybe. If you like it, that is. You can choose to name it whatever you like, truly, it's yours to name, of course."

There was something... odd, something new that happened as she spoke. An apprehensive, excited flutter at the back of her mind where their connection met, as if he could not believe what he was hearing. Which was odd. It was because she had been stammering, surely.

Though the little strange note continues. His delight, though quiet, is clear. How she truly felt? An odd turn of phrase, but Del cannot help but beam. He had picked up on it. He knew her so well. "Of course it is. Cyran, it means the world that you've, ah. Accepted." She clears her throat and gestures to the dagger. "I just... I worry. Especially when you're away on long trips for your work, and with what I've been.. feeling lately. For instance, when certain children wind up hurt and injured?" She arches an eyebrow at him playfully. The dagger was just as much an extension of her own anxieties and trying to alleviate them as it was a reflection of her admiration and regard for him. "And that's why we're here, isn't it? Apart from the monster hunting, anyway." A soft smile plays on her lips. "I think it's nice to just... take a moment to reset, step away from the uncertainty of our world. Try something new together. Explore, without having to worry about society. Feel a little more... I don't know. Like people?" she turns her hand over as she ventures that. Sometimes she felt more like vocation than a person-- and sometimes that was what was needed. But one of the many blessings she got from Cyran's company was that he made her feel like not a smith, not a fugitive, not a helper, not a killer, but simply Del. "I wouldn't give just anyone a dagger you know," she says shyly, but with a wry, coquettish amusement. Almost... Gods. Teasing?

Flirting?

Oh, this wine. Best finish this drink.

She moves the napkin from his finger to look at his tiny cut, and finds the status of the bleeding satisfactory as she turns Cyran's hand over. And then blinks, as a thrill courses down her spine, icy and terrifyingly welcome.

He was wearing the ring-- her ring-- on his finger.

Was it possible to be set aflame with pure cold? That was now her nerves felt for a moment, tingling, numb. Before she can bring it up, a shadow falls over their table.

"Ain't that cute?"

One of the people who had been in the tavern when Cyran and Del arrive lumbers over, flagon of ale in his hand as he looks between the two elves with barely concealed derision. His face is a little older, human, perhaps, but his body is wide and muscular beneath his gear, of which there is plenty that has seen a lot of use. Del frowns up at him-- not in any kind of recognition, but not at all appreciating his energy.

"Couldn't help but overhear you mentioning something about hunting monsters." He sneers softly as he looks between the two, and then seems to do a double take at Del, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Don't I know you?"

"No." She says flatly, and something beneath the surface of her mind wrenches, as if a switch was flipped, and panic pours into her The hand that holds Cyran's twitches ever so slightly, as though reminding herself that he was here. She leans back a little in the booth, appearing non-plussed, vaguely annoyed... the truth was she was ready to launch at this man's throat in a split second if she needed to. While it isn't visible on the surface of Del at all, the tension that suddenly had escalated beneath, the thread of fear, was at the fore of her mind in this moment. Years of careful control had allowed her to maintain a front of confidence, decades of skill and self-sufficiency that gave her a discipline that could hold up houses, or fight metal-hydras if she needed to.

And yet, despite this, one thought resonates firmly within her mind, desperate and worried for what she had hoped was forgotten:

Please don't know me. Please don't know me.

The big man shrugs and moves on. "You two ought to leave off, then. Find somewhere else to take it easy. This here is my turf, and these simple folk haven't paid their tab yet for protection."

Oh, what a relief. Del scoffs, exchanging a glance with Cyran before looking back at the big man to speak again. "We're here on behalf of the Winged Expeditionary Force. We have a signed writ, and the job here is ours."

"I couldn't care less than if you fell out of the King's ass," His uper lip curls in a sneer, "It's my turf and I say no bloody hunting. Clear?"

She gives him a blaise look. "Way I see it, we'd be doing these folks more of a favour than you are, currently. We're working for free." Relatively speaking. The WEF was paying their wages, of course. "Sorry to disrupt your little extortion ring, but there's a problem that needs solving. You don't seem the type."

The big man narrows his eyes, about to say something, when a sliver of recognition dawns over his face. "I do know you, don't I." This time it's less of a question than a statement, as a sinister smile curls his lips. His jaw works thoughtfully for a second, before he steps back from the table, and pops the pair a sarcastic salute. "Have it your way. See y'round."

He tromps off, adjusting his jacket as he makes his way out the door and into the cold evening beyond. The door slams behind him.

The moment he's gone, Del's shoulders fall, and she swallows hard. She looks at Cyran, doing her best to hide her panic and failing. Shit. Shit. He did know her. She had no idea how, but he did. It had been months, why now of all times? "I. Ah. Shit. I'm sorry," she whispers, lifting a hand to run over her hair. Little harmless embers jump off her curls in it's wake.

Cyran nodded in understanding as the conversation turned to Fish - the young thief that Cyran had once met all those months ago. It seemed like Del had more experience with them, from the way she spoke. He had to stop himself from exclaiming when she detailed their first encounter. Gods, that would be enough to give him an ulcer ten times over. How Del hadn’t keeled over chasing after them, he had no idea. He could picture the scene in his mind’s eye, Del chasing after the pitter-patter of talons against stone while dragon’s breath raged overhead. “Goodness, what a harrowing first meeting. They’re rather precocious, and, um, independent. I don’t think they like me very much.”

It was difficult for him to come to terms with Fish’s desire to be seen as an adult, and be treated like one. He could tell that the thief had been forced to grow up too fast, as Del had described, to enter a life of crime to sustain themselves. But even though Cyran wasn’t their actual parent, he still wanted them to know that they shouldn’t have to take care of themselves. That they deserved to be a child. That sentiment seemed to actively drive Fish away, though. At least they seemed to like Del well enough. That was good enough for him, knowing that Fish had another responsible adult who wouldn’t allow them to run headfirst into danger alone.

“Though you seem to know how to get along with them a bit better. I’m relieved.” He admitted. “They’re in good hands… even if they are a bit of a handful.” That last part was spoken with a laugh, before Del pulled out the dagger for him, and the conversation was abandoned as he inspected the offering. It truly was a wonderful construction. He felt oddly giddy as she grabbed his hand, focusing on cleaning up his finger rather than looking at him. He found he couldn’t meet her gaze, either, not for fear of the weight it would carry, but how light it made him feel.

“Wraithsbane.” He tried the name out on his tongue, nodding. “It’s a perfect moniker. Thank you.” He nodded, warmed by the thought that she’d broken her usual code to give him a name. It felt right. To him, the tools he used were a piece of him - they carried his sins, his murders, his drive to remove anything that stood in his path, whether that be a mark in his way or a threat to his family. His intent had been carved into the blades, the metal as attuned to him and his motives as any enchanted item. Del had made this dagger with the desire to protect him from spirits - only fitting that it carried a name to reflect her will.

He tucked the blade to his belt, satisfied with its weight, and the promise that came with it. His suspicions were only reaffirmed as Del expressed her joy at his accepting… she really did wish to court, then. What an odd sensation, this excitement was. Hearing her speak, express the desire to come away and just be, it made him feel young again. “Ah… I’m sorry to have worried you with what happened with Cirice. I know that could not have been the most pleasant of experiences.” He hummed. “This has been a much needed trip. I’m happy to be out here with you.”

He paused, face cherry-tomato red at this point.

His throat felt thick as he swallowed.

“And I, ah, would not accept a dagger from just anyone.” The phrase carried far more behind it than she would realize, perhaps.

But all good things had to come to an end eventually, and the peaceful bubble they’d built around themselves was popped by a looming shadow hovering over their table. Cyran looked up, reaching for one of his daggers with his free hand on instinct - he met the hilt of of Wraithsbane, clutching right to black leather. The man in front of them looked like your regular traveler, the stocky sort one might expect to see in Frostgale, with the grizzled look of someone who’d seen his fair share of combat. His voice, though, was what sent alarm bells ringing in Cyran’s mind. His single eye narrowed, on guard though keeping his body language casual.

And then.

“Don’t I know you?”

Cyran’s grip tightened on Wraithsbane’s hilt so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Ever since Eameia told him that Del was wanted by the crown, he’d been dreading a day like this. The day he would meet someone that knew of her, of the bounty on her head for whatever reason. He wondered what would happen when the day inevitably came that he met someone after her, and it would come down to her or them. And yet, now that they were here, he felt nothing but a serene calm, the same kind of blankness that overtook him when he was on the job. He knew what blood needed to be spilled to keep her safe, and that was a sacrifice he was willing to pay to keep Del safe.

And if this was simply a case of mistaken identity…?

He didn’t care. When it came to Del’s safety? Cyran wasn’t going to take any chances.

He remained silent as Del and the man spoke in clipped tones, the tension thick enough that he could cut through it with one of his blades. All the while, a familiar, cold rage churned in him, the readiness to have a blade in this man’s throat at even the first sign of trouble. It would be so easy… he’d feel nothing doing so. Just another body to join the others, faceless and nameless. He’d happily do so, for her. The shadows stirred around him, ready to do his bidding if he so commanded it.

And then recognition dawned in his eyes, and Cyran knew that any room for doubt had evaporated.

He leaned over as the thug stalked away, brushing his shoulder against the man’s side.^[1] He had to know for sure.

Images flashed through his mind. Truths, extracted from a den of hatred and bitterness of a madman who’d been expelled from the royal guard, now moving from settlement to settlement in the frozen north extorting travelers for too much coin and picking up the mantle of anti-poaching. What a pathetic, short life Bradgeley Hoffstefferson had lived, marred with anger and inadequacy. Cyran absorbed every detail of him and more in those few seconds, from his birth to every single weapon concealed in his cloak, up until the moment he entered the tavern and his eyes landed on someone interesting. Someone he recognized by description alone, from a long time ago… an old supervisor from the guard. Oh, someone would pay a pretty penny for her, wouldn’t they? All he had to do was get her alone, follow her on this stupid hunt, knock out her boyfriend and take her -

Fuck.

Cyran’s shoulders tensed. As Hoffstefferson stalked off, he stood up, as if to follow after him - he knew too much, and someone that knowledge couldn’t be allowed to live. Cyran had to eliminate the threat before anyone else found out Del was here.

A soft voice broke him out of his reverie. Del.

He couldn’t remember a time he’d ever heard her so broken.

There wasn’t a question of whether he would stay or not. Cyran sat once more, grabbing her hand and squeezing it. She smelled of ash where sparks popped through her hair, disappointment and fear and anxiety curling around her. That encounter had scared her more than he thought. Even if she didn’t know about the people who were after her, the anxiety he felt rolling off of her in waves was real.

“Oh, hey… it’s okay.” Cyran squeezed her hand reassuringly. “Listen to me. Focus on the sound of my voice. I’m here. He’s gone, it’s just you and me at this table.” What was the grounding technique that he’d learned? “Focus on the now with me. What are five things you hear around you?”

Del takes deep breaths, trying to stop her chest from outright hyperventilating. She cringes, outwardly, inwardly; embarrassing. Cyran's voice anchors her, the glassiness of her amber eyes coming back into focus as her eyes find his. She exhales a shuddering breath, trying to follow these instructions, knowing that she could trust him with whatever they meant. "I... ah. The fire." Del swallows hard, taking another sharp draw of air. "Wind outside. Talking. Glasses clinking. ...Your voice." she trails off, her voice still a bit tremulous, but certainly, seeming more aware.

“Good.” Cyran squeezed her hand again. Her voice sounded shaky, her words short and stilted, but she hadn’t left him yet. “Good. Keep breathing. Now tell me four things you can see.”

"Four things..." She bites her lower lip and forces herself to look around. Eyes, so many eyes, people looking, observing. Do they recognize her too? Are they part of this hunt? Beneath Cyran's gentle grip, her hand trembles. Del forces her attention down to their joined hands, but keeps her eyes open. "The wine. The grain of wood in the table. Your hand. The ah... the bar, behind you. Am I doing this right?"

Her fear was spiking - he watched her eyes darting around the tavern, unfocused, not really seeing anything but enemies. But slowly, carefully, she looked down, listing things she saw on the table.

Cyran ran his thumb over her palm. Cool against the nervous heat bubbling up from her. “Yes, you’re doing so perfect. Keep focusing on what’s around you. What are three things you’re touching, right now?”

Perfect? She exhales a quiet little chuff of a breath; he always found some way to make her feel special, even when she felt anything but perfect, especially in this moment. "The booth. The floor under my feet." Feeling suddenly overcome, Del bites her lip again. She lifts their joined hands up with a quiet groan, a noise and acknowledgment of stress as the immediacy of the panic starts to leave her body, and presses Cyran's knuckles to her forehead. "...you."

In many more ways than just this. His presence within her soul is not unlike a cool balm on feverish skin. She feels him. He is here. And that matters.

He could feel her starting to relax underneath his grip, the tension bleeding out from her body, the steady rise and fall of her breath evening out to something manageable. “Good. You feel me and I feel you. We’re both here together, and you are safe in this tavern. Now give me two things you can smell, if you please.”

Him, again, immediately jumps to her mind, but that was because she was holding his hand to her forehead. "Okay. Wine. Ah. Smoke. Tobacco, I think."

Indeed, there were two dwarves behind them engrossed in cigars and conversation. The smell might have been overwhelming any other time, but it was potent enough that it was distracting her from the onset of panic. He nodded, leaning forward in his seat. Kept the rise and fall of his chest even, hoping he could feel his calm through the bond. “One more, you’re almost done. Give me one thing you can taste.”

Del's lips press into a thin line. That was a good question. What did she taste? Bile from the nausea of her panic. Copper from aching lungs. Things she didn't want to use as an answer. Instead, Del heaves a quiet sigh, lowers Cyran's hand from her forehead, and gently kisses his knuckles. "You." She says again, setting their hands back down on the table as she opens her eyes with a wan smile. "Thank you, Cyran."

Cyran swallowed. It took all of his willpower not to blush like a maiden at the chaste kiss. But she’d completed the exercise. He shot her a small smile, tired, but genuine. “You’re going to be okay. The world continues to move on around us, and you’re grounded in this moment. In the barstool underneath you and the smoke and the wine and the conversation. No harm will come to you here.” That was a promise he intended to keep. He would use his blades in service of Del, slay every single one of her pursuers if he had to. But she would be allowed to live.

That much, a killer like him could manage.

“… Do you want to get out of the public? I’ll rent us a room.” A single room, as them having their own separate rooms was not up for debate after what had just happened.

---

1. Reveal Truth

No harm. That notion seemed so unlikely, so far away, given the incredible amount of danger she and Cyran were in now. Danger she had brought on them both. A profound guilt fills her at the thought, that she was responsible for this new complication and Cyran was now in danger because of her past that she could not escape for the life of her. And yet, she believes him. Believes those words. How could he offer this so openly to her, a promise to protect her while he did not know, could not possibly know, about what she had inadvertently brought on them both? But if it came to it, Del knew with a certainty not unlike the breath in her own lungs that he meant every word. Gods, she didn't deserve him. Her jaw squares in firm resolve.

Del would not let any harm come to him, either.

"Ah... yes. We should. Get some rest." she mumbles, holding fast to his hand. Not wanting to let go. The fact that it was a shared room did not, at first, register for her; partly because they had done exactly that for a number of weeks aboard the Judeia, and because she was not thinking about the implications of such. She gives Cyran a tentative, wavering smile.

Cyran refuses to let go of her hand. If Del feels lost in this moment, he’ll hold strong. She’s done it enough times for him. There’s no point in going on a murdering spree to protect her when she’s barely hanging on by a thread… there could be nothing more important than ensuring that she feels safe.

Goodness… this evening had turned tits-up rather spectacularly, hadn’t it?

“Okay. Let’s go.” He assures her, leading her upstairs to the room he’d secured earlier. Pulling her into the quiet, away from the overwhelming noise and chatter. To the bed, where he secures one of the blankets and wraps it delicately around her shoulders. His voice is impossibly fond as he presses a hand to her cheek.

“You’re safe. I will not allow anyone to reach you here."

It's almost nervewracking to be so... cared for. There was no other word for it. As she sits on the bed, blanket draped with soothing comfort about her shoulders, she feels wholly unworthy, but beyond grateful. Cyran could have just left her there to process, perhaps stand guard outside the door, but he doesn't. She is the one who is supposed to be strong, be the bulwark against threats and endure the blows so that no one else has to. That was her job. As Cyran secures her, makes her feel safe, she has never felt more soft, more vulnerable in all her life. A weakness.

One she cherishes so, so much.

His hand touches her face; Del closes her eyes with a slow sigh and leans into his cool touch, seeking the comfort of his presence and understanding. Of all people, he could see this. These cracks in her dross and the soft flesh beneath. No one else knew her like he did. Except for that one thing. This had been a long time coming.

"Well. This is one way to get to know someone." Del sighs. It's so hard to meet his eye, despite the open acceptance that she can feel radiating from him. He wanted to know about her. This was important. He had to know.

"I feel as though I should start off with an apology," she starts slowly, her shoulders dropping in what felt like defeat. "The reason I came to Darkveil and the reason I spent most of my life on the road is because... because I am being pursued." Del swallows hard. Her hands make knots of themselves, restlessly twining her fingers together over and over again, as though trying to bind something together. "I was drawn there, of course, that remains true, and I still don't understand why. But my earlier visits to the city... I usually had to leave quite quickly. I was being hunted by people. Mercenaries, gangs, gods knows what else. When I met you and you invited me to spend the night at Shade's Valley... I worried about bringing you harm. I thought the second I caught wind of any kind of danger of the sort, I would leave and prevent you or the kids from coming to any sort of harm. And then..." she exhales a shaky breath.

and then you fell.

"--we had the ah. The ritual. I enjoyed spending my time... with you, with the kids, working in Shade's Valley. And that entire time, I wasn't pursued. I would have told you if I was. Weeks went by. Months. I thought maybe, I'd finally given them the slip. That maybe they had given up looking for me, and I could finally just..." she trails off again, and swallows hard, unsure of how to finish the sentence. Del opens her eyes to Cyran, and speaks again after a few moments of wrestling with her words. She doesn't deserve forgiveness for that deception, but Del can only hope he would believe her.

"I don't know why they're after me. They're never the same people, and those I have managed to try and get information out of don't give me anything useful to go on, if anything at all. But they're relentless; I've spent the past forty years running from them. I think it has something to do with my past, before I lost my memory, but I don't know for sure what it is they want or why they're after me. There's no uniting thread that I can see. It might even have something to do with Maruyama, maybe, but... I suspect he is not the cause." She fidgets with her hands again, but forces herself to continue to meet Cyran's moonlight eye. "And now, I've been found and you're in danger because of me. I am so, so sorry, Cyran. I should have told you sooner."

Del still couldn’t quite bring herself to relax, not even after Cyran led her upstairs, or after he helped her to the bed and draped a blanket over her. Only when he brought a hand up to her cheek did she let out a shuddering sigh, leaning into the touch. So weary. Cyran settled down on the bed next to her, driven only by the desire to be close to her, to make sure that she could lean on him. He’d been aware, logically, of the pursuers that chased after her. But seeing the scars that it left on her, wounds that were not as visible as the mark on her nose and the nicks on her hands. But deep marks all the same.

He stayed silent as she spoke, every word halting and hesitant, as if forcing out a truth that didn’t want to be set free. Cyran didn’t dare say anything, not as she described the fear, the unknowing forces that pursued her. Nor could he bring himself to say anything as she apologized profusely for leaving him in the dark, the panic from earlier blossoming once more. Oh, how Cyran wished that he could watch flowers bloom in her hair rather than this anxiety, a terrible, horrible sensation that bubbled up in the back of his chest, his ring feeling cold against his finger.

Cyran’s brows furrowed.

“Oh, Del…”

Guilt twisted and writhed in his heart, thinking of that day all these months ago, in the Rookery. The conversation with Eameia. That discovery had weighed on his mind, this truth about Del that even she didn’t seem to understand. He’d made a promise to the young fellblood then, that he would protect Del from her attackers however he could, but keeping a secret from her weighed heavily on him. He’d been looking for the right way to broach the subject, to bring it up to her - how in the world could he ever think to hide something so important? But the time had never seemed right, and then the quake happened, and the destruction of Shade’s Valley…

There had never been time.

That decision was coming back to haunt him, now. In the worst way possible. Looking at Del’s distraught expression, the guilt in her posture that was mirrored in his own, Cyran felt a monster for keeping this for so long.

“Del, you have nothing to apologize for. You’ve - you’ve done absolutely nothing wrong, it’s I who should be the one to apologize to you.” He bit his lip, averting his eyes. Why, now, did the truth feel so difficult?

“I’ve known.”

There was nothing for him to do but twist the wring on his finger. Del had been able to be brave… she deserved to know what he had learnt.

“Not for very long, I promise. Only a month or so - the hellhounds. You remember Eameia. She’s quite the accomplished mage.” He huffed out a humorless laugh. “She cast some sort of spell. On you. I didn’t find out until afterwards, otherwise I wouldn’t have allowed it to happen at all - though I know the spell that she used intimately well. I use it myself when extracting information from enemies.”

A dangerous admission… close to the truth. But now that he’d started, the dam had burst, and the words couldn’t stop flowing from his mouth, like sweet, sweet poison.

“I would never, never. Think to use it on a friend. I wasn’t aware it would work with someone who couldn’t remember their past, but Eameia had no idea.” He shook his head. “Whatever she saw… she only told me one thing. The bounty on your head, from the crown. She asked me if I was prepared to go against the government for your sake.”

He closed his eyes, remembering the fear in Eameia’s face when she’d asked that of him. As if she was asking what he would forsake for her.

“The point is. Um. I made a vow then that I would protect you from anything I could that came after you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, you have every right to be mad at me. But you were never endangering me. I’ve always known about the risks, and that would never make me want to leave you. Ever. I don’t care about the past. You’re not putting me in any danger I didn’t willingly choose to put myself in. And it is a choice I would willingly make a thousand times over for you.”

He held out the palm of his hand, summoning his blades to his side. Cold Steel in one hand, and Spell Slicer - the knife that Del had repaired - in the other.^[1]

“And I… I want to protect you. You’ve been running so long, and amidst all that, I’m happy. That you’re here. With me. I don’t want you to feel like you have to keep running - if my skills came in handy ensuring you are safe from those that pursue you, then it will mean that they’ve been used for something worthwhile, for once.”

He offered her a small smile, a shy one. Barely the upward quirk of his lips, though there was so much affection there that it felt like he would burst from it all… and beneath everything, the lingering apology.

I’m sorry.

Please forgive me.

“My blades are yours, if you’ll have them.”

---

1. Summon: Possession

His gaze, so gentle and understanding, is so hard to bear. She didn't deserve his understanding; she was a criminal, her very presence put everything he cared about in danger--

What?

She blinks, astonished, as Cyran apologises. He knew? How could he know? Del sits in stunned silence as Cyran explained how he knew-- Eameia. When did she find out? This spell he mentioned sounded dangerous, but of course it was a spell, she would have no way of knowing if one was being cast on her unless she was looking right at the person when they cast it, and she'd had her back to the young Fellblood at least once. And what would Cyran need of that spell, for enemies?

A few more puzzle pieces click into place, confirming her long-held suspicions, but Del doesn't move or speak yet. She listens to Cyran with her slightly furrowed brow as he explains the things about her past that she'd had no way of knowing. Not before now.

A pool of frigid dread settles in her stomach. That was who was behind this? The Crown? If the Crown was after her, after all this time, then she did do something. Something terrible. That in some way, she deserved this endless pursuit of her. Perhaps she ought to be angry about having these things about her extracted and hidden without her knowledge, but she cannot even find it in herself to be annoyed. If anything it was a... relief. To have an explanation for things that she, before, could not explain. That Cyran believed her. That Eameia knew her truth, and divulged it to the person Del trusted most, who now vowed to keep her safe. Willingly accepting the risks that went with exposure to the Crown, exposure to her. It... moves her in a way she cannot fully quantify. What she had done to deserve such devotion, she would never know. But she wanted to be worthy of it.

He was happy. At the end of the day, wasn't that what she wanted? What mattered so much to her?

When he sat near her like that, his blades flat in his palms in offering to her, a solemn promise of protection, of acceptance, bearing himself to him for her... that twisting knot in her chest bursts, liquid heat trickling down her spine. She leans down, to take each of Cyran's hands in hers, and fold her own fingers gently over his, over the hilts of his daggers. A lopsided smile appears, barely holding back a tide of affection. A thousand times, yes.

"My Rogue," she murmurs. Her hands move to cup his face, her fingers trailing his jaw, brimming with her own adoration and gentle acceptance. "I would accept every blade in your arsenal... But never forget that the man who weilds them is what I cherish."

He was more than a weapon. More than his blades and his skills. They were shadows together. Only a shadow could make out the definition of another's soul in the dark, the shifts and hints of grey that otherwise was washed away in darkness. "I shall do my best to be worthy of that, and offer you the same vow. If you would have me."

She feels something heavy settle in her chest, then. Something certain, earnest, and deep, that yearns to show him, show him. There's a pause, where her lids grow heavy and she starts to lean toward him--

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

Del leaps to her feet, already striding briskly for the door, like the flipping of a switch. Serene in one moment, bound for war in the next, prepared to destroy whoever it was that sought to disturb their peace--

"Excuse me? Mr and Mrs Mellora? You forgot your bag downstairs."

Oh. Del pauses in her steps and relaxes, shoulders dropping and hanging her head in irritation with herself. The alias. They were married again, were they? She approaches the door to open it, taking the misplaced bag from the kindly dwarf. "Sorry for the trouble; Thank you."

"Of course, ma'am. Enjoy your stay and have a pleasant honeymoon!"

After bidding the innkeep a good night, Del closes the door and drops the bag next to the threshold, lifting a hand to rake restlessly through her curls. She slowly turns back towards Cyran, moving to sit next to him again on the bed. She gives him a crooked smile. "Mr and Mrs, hmm?" she glances to his hand; that explained the ring, at least. "Your skills are more than worthwhile regardless of what you use them for. Which, if I am taking your meaning, that they are not primarily meant for hunting?" Her brow arches teasingly, knowingly. Perhaps a little sheepishly. She too, had known.

It was a perilous thing, Cyran thought, to offer all of yourself to someone in hopes of earning their acceptance. He’d assured her that there was nothing that would change his opinion of her - the truth. He had no idea what the circumstances were that set her in the sights of the royal line, though he knew it didn’t matter: he had seen Del to the very core, and held a piece of her within him. She was good. It didn’t even matter to him if she’d actually committed some crime to end up in, as Eameia had offhandedly put it, “purgatory”. And yet, as he admitted what he’d known, that this changed nothing - that all she had to do was save the world and he would jump to her aid - he had difficulty practicing what he preached.

He held his breath, expecting her disappointment. Her anger. There were secrets they kept from one another, obviously, two jaded adults merely acting in self preservation. But hiding something about Del for herself for so long, no matter how much he wished to tell her. He could imagine her now, panic morphing into anger at a secret withheld. He could imagine her shaking her head, thunder dancing in her withering curls. Why didn’t you tell me?

What he didn’t expect was her grabbing his face instead, declaring with such conviction that his knives were secondary to him.

Cyran tilted his head, soft confusion flickering across his face. His lips parted, a question on his lips he didn’t know how to formulate.

“But… that is what I’m good for.”

That was what he offered others - that was what he could offer Del. If she didn’t want him for his blades, then…

A dangerous thought. A dangerous proximity. Del was learning forward, promising to cherish him in much the same way. A dangerous ritual - a bond of their word, of mutual respect, not one of magic. Del had been the one to propose the question. And as Cyran closed his eyes, leaning forward in response, he offered the answer.

Or at least, he tried to, before a harsh knock on the door pulled him away from her, clutching his daggers in a white-knuckled grip. The poacher from earlier? As Del strode forward, Cyran had adopted a similar stance. Where Del was alight with action, Cyran would be the darkness that followed, ready to slit someone’s throat with hardly a flick of his wrist -

"Excuse me? Mr and Mrs Mellora? You forgot your bag downstairs."

Cyran flushed, dropping his daggers back into sheaths on his belt while Del grabbed their bag. Only when the door clicked behind her did Del turn around with a teasing smile, raising her eyebrows. Cyran exhaled from his nose, a sound between a pained wheeze and a laugh. Admittedly, with everything that had happened in the past hour, he’d forgotten about the story he’d fed that bartender.

“He, ah, assumed - I did nothing to dissuade this assumption. It is a good cover.” And one that made his heart flutter in a strange way. It felt comfortable, easier to step into than he ever thought it would. Cyran tapped his fingers against his thigh, drumming out a small rhythm while he considered her next non-question.

He supposed they’d both known things they weren’t quite willing to voice.

“I…” He averted his gaze, a frown tugging at his lips. He’d known this day would inevitably come, but he feared her coming to know the Specter. Perhaps she liked Cyran… though there was no knowing how much that would extend to the darkest parts of his shadow he didn’t dare speak of.

But he couldn’t be dishonest with her. Not when she’d asked a direct question.

“Not hunting monsters in the traditional sense, no.” He whispered. “Nor could I ever claim to call it worthwhile or honorable. But in this case… it is a necessary evil.”

He flashed her a wane smile.

Now that the innkeeper had left and it was just the two of them again, she can feel the urgency and panic slowly starting to leave her muscles again. Cyran was here. He had her back. There was no need to go into hiding or seek an escape or exit route. He was here, and he had sworn to her his intent to help. What choice did she have but to take such solemn words seriously? How... incredible to have someone believe her like that. And be willing to defende her so readily.

She's still shaken by it as she chuckles softly, listening to Cyran explain why he went with the Mellora's cover again. It was good, reliable cover. Familiar, too. It felt like stepping into a second skin, one they had worn for weeks together. But if Del thought on it long enough, she would remember that it felt quite natural from the outset. "I would have done the same thing. Besides, it's ah. Comfortable, being in the same room."

That was an understatement.

"And, you ought to know. That, um. I... I know." Returning his smile, Del reaches for Cyran's hand, squeezing it gently. His voice was whisper soft, and she reacts in kind, her own voice a low murmur that did not shy from his truth. "You do what you must to survive. To help others survive. I, ah. Heard you and others call Eleanor and Rhi'as Andromeda and Oriole." She lifts one shoulder in an apologetic shrug, sheepish. "You carry yourself and act like a commander in those moments of intensity. You conduct your apprentices like parts of an orchestra." and dust and ash, how attractive was that? "Even when we were doing practices of techniques when we met with Gerhart and Cirice, your blows were meant for the forms of people, not animals. I just..." she bites her lip. Why hadn't she brought it up before now? "I wanted you to share that with me when you were ready. If you were ready."

"And, Cyran," Del fixed him with a look then, serious and terribly sincere. She would not let his words earlier slip by so easily. "You are good for so much more. You matter to me. Not what you can do. Not who is at the end of your blades. You."

You. You. You.

"I would not wish for you to be anything other than you are. I don't care for honour, and what is worthwhile is dependent on circumstance. You have lived and thrived and helped others to thrive. To me, that is worthwhile. But you don't have to do anything to be worthy." Her expression breaks into an earnest smile. "You're Moonlight."

That word felt right. The moon need only exist to be admired; so too, was Cyran.

"Is that why you feel that uyou and Fish don't get along? You mentioned it before we were, ah. Distracted earlier." She grimaces faintly at the Unpleasantness that was whoever-the-hell that asshole was.

Cyran let out a small, relieved sigh when Del assured him that it was okay that he’d used the same ruse, that she was comfortable sharing a room and a bed once more. Cyran supposed that he was happy with that - from the Judeia and their usual travel, it was comfortable and easy for him to rest by her side, too. It made it easier for him to morph her nightmares into good dreams, alleviate her of that painful memory for at least a couple of nights.

That relief was short-lived when Del spoke next. That she knew. Knew what he, in her words, had to do to survive. Another beautiful sentiment. If only it were the truth. If it were anyone else in this position, anyone he didn’t trust, Cyran would have taken one of the daggers in his hands and plunged it into their neck. Self-preservation screamed at him to reach out and grab her hand, and erase her memories of this entire conversation. Just make her forget what she knew, forget he’d ever said anything incriminating…

But he couldn’t. He could never do something that horrible to her.

“Oh, Del…” How lovely her acceptance was. Though how could he truly earn it when she didn’t have the true full picture of what he was? Perhaps she thought Cyran was a mercenary, or a spy. He shoved his hands into his lap as if the very action pained him - a protection mechanism. Not for himself. For her.

Her, her, her.

He squeezed his eyes shut - couldn’t bear to look at her. She’d bore her heart and soul to him, all of those fears and horrors that she’d been too afraid to hurt him. But those things, they weren’t her fault. She was chased for something she couldn’t understand. The actions of the past weren’t tied to the woman in front of him, someone so kind that she went around giving toys to children in a dangerous city and offered to help patch a stranger’s orphanage for free. Her eyes lit up when she saw precious animals, and shimmered with restrained fear when she stood in a boat surrounded by her worst fear. Perhaps she fancied herself a monster, but all Cyran saw when he looked at her was a survivor.

“You do what you must to survive. To help others survive.”

“I wish I could believe that.” He murmured.

Perhaps if he was younger, he could have deluded himself into believing as such when he was younger, but Cyran knew there was no justifying what he did. No one made him what he was today. No one had forced him to pick up a blade and use it to take the lives of others. Cyran had walked down this path himself, because he was good at it, and it paid the bills. Because when he stood across from a stranger they were nothing but a name and face. He didn’t feel guilt for what he did, and that… that in itself was what made him feel guiltier than anything.

“Eleanor and Rhi’as are my students. Those names you heard… their aliases. I can afford to talk to my allies,” People like Zarius and Eameia and Caedes, “and use my real face and name because I can afford to. But you’re not just a work ally to me. I wanted to keep one thing for myself, for Cyran, I suppose. And I wanted the kids to have a normal experience.”

He let out a bitter laugh.

And then she called him Moonlight and he could have cried.

“I’m not moonlight.” He admitted. “I’m just the Specter.”

An honest admission, ripped straight from his throat when the words didn’t want to come out. He shouldn’t have told her this much - but even this admission was all he could manage, a symbol of his trust. If she was curious, she could dig into the name. Find the first records of his existence, a string of politicians in Moonglade dating ten years back. She could dig, and read about all the kills attributed to that name.

“That’s what they call me.”

His shoulders slumped, all the fight draining from his body. There was nothing for him to do but lean his head on Del’s shoulder, silver-stained hair trailing all over her like ink. One of her curls tickled his nose. He was so tired.

“No… Fish doesn’t like me for a different reason. Criminal or not… I cannot condone a child walking down this path while they can still create a better future for themselves.” Gods, Fish wasn’t even a decade old yet. “I was tasked with watching over them and assessing their skills for an ally of mine. They didn’t appreciate that I wasn’t comfortable with it.” He burrowed his head deeper into Del’s shoulder, as if the reality of it all in that moment was too much to bear. As if hiding with Del would banish it all. “I just. I see glimpses of myself in them. I don’t want them to end up like me.”

She gives Cyran a little look as he says he wished he could believe that, but lets it go for the moment, because Del didn't just believe it, she knew it, and she wanted to hear him out. This had clearly burdened him for so long. Del had always wondered about that weight he carried, and now she was starting to see the big picture of what it was... that he did not ever wish to burden her with it, burden himself with having this necessary separation between who he was and what he must do. He thought of her as more than an ally. He wanted her for the part of him that was Cyran.

Dust and ash, what to do with the sudden blooming of flowers in the pit of her stomach at the sheer notion of that?

The way he caved into her made part of her bend, somewhere. A yeilding, to make room to cushion and support. He was just... so weary, so drained. It made her eyes sting. "Oh, Cyran..." Swallowing the thickness in her throat, she slowly, painstakingly, wraps her arm around Cyran's waist, to allow him closer, to lean more on her if that was what he wanted. Gods, it had been so long since it was just the two of them in a room like this. Just Cyran and Del, no other worries or urgently pressing issues save for that which they were discussing in hushed tones. Whispering secrets.

The Specter. A title bestowed on him, whispers and words. The worries of Fish, becoming 'like him' as if that was some bad and regretful thing. Perhaps it was, for Cyran, but Del thought different.

"You don't need to justify yourself. Not to me," she murmurs softly, her head turning so she could tuck his head under her chin, resting her cheek against his crown. The arm wrapped around him lifts, caressing his arm with the knuckles of her hand with smooth, gentle strokes; up and down, up and down. "You are Moonlight, to me. And you are the Specter, as you say. Those two things are not mutually exclusive. They don't have to be." she urges him, her voice soft as she speaks into his hair. "You are a wonderful father. You are an incredible friend. You are my...." she swallows hard on the words for a moment, before they emerge again from her throat, "My dearest companion and someone to whom I trust my life with. Someone I wish to know fully, as you want to know me."

The arm about his shoulders tenses, then, squeezing Cyran close. "You can be the Specter and be these things, also. It does not make me wish to be in your company any less. It does not make you any less worthy." she shifts again, slightly, bending her legs so they curled beneath her on the bed so she could take more of his weight to lean on her. "I am not afraid. I do not want to be anywhere else."

With you.

"As for Fish..." Del hums thoughtfully, "They are not always terribly fond of me either. I think for them, they have been alone so long that they had to find their own way. They don't know what else could work for them, what else they could do, because what they do have is all they know. Think of it like... Eleanor." Del chuffs, shifting strands of his hair as she thinks of the cantankerous young woman... though she had made incredible strides lately. "They have their own idea of what the world and how they identify within it looks like. They have to be shown differently and allowed to come to the conclusion on their own." After a moment's more of thought, Del gives Cyran another squeeze, her other arm lifting to envelope him in a hug. "I am sorry you worry so much for Fish's path. But I think you are a better influence on them than you think, my Rogue."

Those things aren’t mutually exclusive. They don’t have to be.

From a logical standpoint, Cyran supposed those words weren’t wrong. He knew that people were not wholly good nor wholly evil - they were the culmination of their own experiences, good and bad. They were the sum of their parts. Perhaps he could be the Specter, and perhaps he could be Moonlight, as Del saw him. But for some reason allowing himself that grace was an impossible task. It was one thing to make mistakes. It was another to commit acts of cruelty while being fully aware of what one was doing. But Del didn’t seem to care. She merely held tightly to him, where he’d buried himself in her shoulder like a child seeking reassurance, and reassured him that this didn’t change anything. He was still a dear companion to her.

It was too good to be true.

He was dreaming, surely.

But then Del shifted so that she bore the brunt of Cyran’s weight, and spoke with the gentlest murmur, words that rang as true as everything else she’d spoken. I’m not afraid.

And those were the words that proved to be Cyran’s undoing.

Cyran’s emotions generally lay somewhere between stoicism and bleeding heart. He usually kept what he was feeling behind a wall of indifference, a protective barrier to ward others away. That didn’t mean he didn’t have weaknesses where love and affection wormed its way into his heart. He loved freely, all while keeping his own insecurities behind lock and key. Not because he wanted to drive others away, but because he knew deep down his own emotions shouldn’t matter to others.

And yet, to be held with such tenderness, to be assured that it was okay… it was too much. It was all too much.

Cyran wanted to scream, to demand why she had not simply reacted with disgust and pity like she expected. He wanted the ground to swallow him whole until he didn’t exist anymore. What he did instead was wrap his arms around her in turn, and allow her to support him. And it was here, in the safety of her shoulder, similar to that night in the woods after the collapse of Shade’s Valley, that Cyran allowed himself to break down.

Perhaps allowed was not the accurate term for it. It was more like a battle he’d been fighting for years, and only now told it was okay for him to lay his sword down and settle at the campfire. It was like coming home after a long war, one from which Cyran was not sure he’d survived. Shade’s Valley was his domicile, but never before had someone looked at him - the kindness and the ugliness - and decided that he was still someone worth cherishing. There were his children, of course, but that was a different kind of affection, and shrouded behind the gaze of fatherly love. Even his kids did not know him, not fully. He did not want to place those burdens on them when it was his job to hold them and keep them from the cruelties from the world for as long as he could.

This was different.

This was home.

Cyran was not sure how long he cried, or how much he’d ruined Del’s jacket. He was untethered, merely a visitor in his own body as it crumbled to dust. He supposed that was the crux of it all - it was easy to harden to steel when confronted with cruelty, and all too easier to shatter like glass when handled with gentle, feather-light touches. And yet, Del didn’t judge, or ask him to stop. She merely held him until he could no longer manage anything, until all he could do was dry sob. Even when he was letting go, his tears were silent.

“This isn’t right.” He mumbled, once he was coherent enough to form words again. “I’m supposed to be the one comforting you right now.”

She’d nearly been the one to break downstairs, after all. And instead, Cyran had been the one to slip and fall, fall as he always did.

“Like Eleanor…” Cyran murmured. He supposed the comparison made sense. The only difference was that Eleanor was an adult, cognizant of her actions. Fish was far too young to be hardened by the world as they had been. There was no changing reality, and yet. Here they were. “I’m not sure that’s true. I haven’t made a very good first impression, but… I suppose that gives me an idea of how to speak with them when I next see them. Thank you.”

He shifted, pulling himself away to wipe at his face. Even though he’d let his guard down, he still felt odd about allowing Del to see the aftermath of his breakdown. He furiously wiped at his face, trying to erase all evidence of his emotion. Guilty for allowing himself to break, for someone to see him during that vulnerable moment. But more than that… he just felt drained.

“Um. I suppose we should attempt to get some sleep, considering we’ve got a big day ahead of us, yes?”

It started as a trickle, and then became a flood. A torrential downpour of emotion, a breaking dam that rushed out of Cyran and into their connection. It was enough to take her breath away, to hitch her breath in her throat with the sudden and sheer overwhelm of what he was feeling, reverberating through her own soul like ripples in a pond.

His face turns into her shoulder, where he buries himself there, trembling ever so slightly. Was... he was crying?

"Cyran..." Del murmurs, voice thick with her own emotion. Her own heart shatters in that moment, for him. Her hair hisses slightly with the sound of distant rain, the scent of petrichor rising from her curls. It was so hard to see him so hurt, but she must. She would do nothing else.

He had been holding on, holding back, for so long... far, far too long. There aren't many words after that point; Del draws him close, holding him against her body while sobs wracked his slender frame, painful in their silence-- a heart practiced at hiding distress, a heart that did not feel safe in the presence of others. It hurt to feel so powerless in the face of what he had been enduring in silence for so long... and yet, at the same time, it was so cathartic; he relinquished this thing to her, this part of Cyran that was outside of his blades. How poigniant to simply sit and let these heavy waves of emotion crash over her, being his anchor in this moment while the storm swept along his shore. She holds fast, her head gently lolling against his. Her chest aches and her eyes burn, and she has to bite her lip to hold back the sob, trying to... process all that grief, all the suffering. His and hers.

It is strange to think that she herself might not have cried if it hadn't been for Cyran's own tears; not only shedding them for him, but for herself, to accept the weight of those lost memories that haunted her still, and here was someone who would unflinchingly face them, who bore her no malice for keeping it from him as long as she had. A profound sort of acceptance that spoke of their bond, a ritual deeper than the exchange of rings and their kinship with shadow.

Del stops worrying about the time, the tear stains on her clothes never once a concern. Outside, what was left of the daylight has faded to an inky black, but her focus is on the man in her arms, who smells of salt and soot and steel and the crispness of fresh snow. The world beyond this room, this bed, could wait. Right now, seeing this through with Cyran was what mattered most.

When he speaks, Del lifts her head a little to tilt her gaze down at him. "You have comforted me," she whispers back, lifting a hand to delicately brush the tracks of fallen tears from his cheeks, from the corners of his eye. She dares-- so bold in this moment of intimacy-- to slightly shift his eye patch to dab the corner of that eye, too. But only slightly; He had already rendered himself so vulnerable to her, though she was used to seeing his void-like eye and knew what it meant, she would not remove its cover. Not without his express permission. She would not betray his trust that way. "I... you are a comfort to me. I feel safe when I am with you." she pauses then, as if realizing something important, and then puts her hand to the side of his face, gentle but insistent. "You have done enough, my Rogue. You are enough."

She didn't quite know why it was so important for him to hear that, but Del meant it. Every word.

Del nods faintly as he pulls back, her smile wan as she watches Cyran scrub the emotion from his face. She wears her own tear-stains without touching them, not willing to hide them, too tired to try and not finding it needed. Regarding him for a thoughtful moment, she nods, and shrugs off her jacket. It's tossed haphazardly to the floor, followed by her boots, and then she promptly lays back on the bed with a grunt, body stiff from the days of walking. A proper bed, for a night. She pats the mattress next to her-- a little hesitant, for, really, it was quite bold, but this was not their first time sharing a bed. Depsite that, the offer makes her feel a little nervous flutter in her stomach. "That we should. Dawn is never far enough off, these days," she chuckles faintly, before it eases into a sleepy sigh. Tentatively, she speaks up again, her voice soft. "We could... do the dream thing? Help one another sleep?"

He wasn’t sure how long he cried, fragile at the evening’s revelations. Secrets that he could never begrudge Del… and her own acceptance of him, in turn. She still somehow believed he was a good person, a fact that Cyran steadfastly refused to believe, but Cyran couldn’t bring himself to contest her kindness anymore. All he could do was allow himself to break, and reform himself in this new normal.

Just as Del felt safe with him, he felt safe enough to break with her. No, it was more accurate to say that these cracks in foundation had always been there, but the flaws were just now making themselves known. And Del, the patient smith, only ran her fingers along the breaks and filled them with gold.

She brushed tears from his cheeks, helping Cyran clean up the traces of his emotions. She deliberately, respectfully, avoided removing his eyepatch, electing only to clean the corners of his face. It was such a gentle and scary thing to be taken care of this way. Cyran finished the work for her, removing his eye patch and tucking it in his pocket. They were alone, and he didn’t mind keeping it off, around her.

At his suggestion of getting some rest, Del started getting herself ready or sleep - a familiar routine. They were no strangers to travel together, or sharing a room or bed. That much was familiar to the point where it no longer felt daunting or awkward to rest in the same space together. Especially given what she’d given him earlier today…

Well. They didn’t need to talk about that now. They’d already spoken so much tonight, and there was only so much Cyran could take before he began to feel scraped raw. Yes, it would help him to get some sleep, and make sure that Del’s nightmares were banished. That much he could do, after all he’d dumped on her this night. Cyran went through the motions of hanging up his cloak, tying his hair in a loose ribbon, and making sure that the doors and windows were locked.

“Of course.” He murmured. “I think after all that some rest is well deserved.” And he needed to be sharp to take care of the yeti, and… whatever else may come. “It was a tiring night, my fighter. Thank you for protecting me, allow me to do the same for you.”

In the only way he knew how.

Cyran was only a touch hesitant as he pulled himself under the blanket, making sure that the both of them were warm. Even with the heat from the fireplace, there was still a biting chill in the air, and being so close to Del was like sitting near a furnace. Warm. Home.

Under the covers, his hand gripped hers. And as they drifted to sleep, he made sure that she had pleasant dreams. Of rumbling, gentle thunderstorms and fields of sunflowers.

Seeing his face without the eyepatch makes her heart skip a beat. She was familiar with his unadorned visage at this point, but it was a deliberate lowering of his guard, a symbol of his trust in her. Already raw from the emotion filled night, exhausted from her panic earlier, she cannot help but trace the pad of her thumb along the rune beneath his eye. She remains silent, contemplative in the shared silence of their room, as though trying to understand something there truly were no words for. The connection they shared was beyond them. But for that moment, she feels her immersion in that bond, finding within it... certainty. Comfort. Peace.

Then it is time to ready themselves for bed. It isn't long before he joins her after his own routine of checking doors, locks, tying back his hair. A slow sigh leaves her as he settles in beside her, taking her hand.

Despite all the worry and fear that had threatened to consume her earlier, and how that normally made her wish to withdraw, there was nothing more Del needed in this moment than Cyran's presence. His contact was sorely needed... much appreciated. Exhaling another, shorter huff, she leans towards Cyran, pressing her forehead against his jaw. She can feel his pulse fluttering on her cheek, the way his throat works as he swallows. He was here, with her. He wa safe, and real. And wasn't he wonderful?

"Always." she whispers back, a little groggy as she already started to drift off. Of course she would protect him. He was her Rogue. He was Important. She would defend him to the last. But she knew he wa also safe with him, too. Allowed to be soft and vulnerable. Gold instead of steel. "Thank you for taking care of me. You are a wonderful husband."

Perhaps a bit of a jest, considering their renewed use of their cover... but the words were no less true. Despite the fact that this was cover they had used for some time, he doted and fussed and treated her like-- like no one ever had or ever could. If she was lucky enough to have someone like... no, Cyran himself. If she were lucky enough to have Cyran as her partner, her husband, she would be a fortunate woman indeed.

It is thinking on this that Del falls asleep, holding Cyran's hand beneath the covers, comforted by his closeness. Her dreams are filled with fields of sunflowers, swaying with the distant breeze of a thunderstorm on the horizon. And clasped in her palm, the most precious thing of all.

Cyran's hand.

---

Del found herself waking before the dawn broke, well in the habit now of rising at a certain time, sun or no sun, thanks to the endless cloud-cover that blanketed Darkveil. But she does not move, yet. Partly because she does not want to, and mostly because there is a weight that had settled across her body.

It was not the first time Cyran and Del had found themselves entangled after a night's sleep. Even their best efforts to stay apart had wound up with them draped over one another for weeks on end. This was a common occurence, but it was no less spectactular as it had been the first time. The air was chilled, though Del could only imagine how much colder it was beyond the room, beyond the blankets. Cyran alwas ran a little cold as well-- something she delighted in, secretly, upon waking. But knowing how easily Cyran was brought to a chill, she shifts to better cover him, allowing Cyran to absorb as much of her body heat as possible.

She doesn't say anything for a while, or so much as twitch, after that. Del only remains still and quiet, breathing slowly. Not willing to disturb these brief moments of peace before the had to go and face the world. Not yet.

In his last few moments of wakefulness, he thought he might have heard Del say something… but no, that must have just been a figment of his imagination. A memory of words spoken in the Judeia, or wishful thinking perhaps. Or maybe, given what she’d given him earlier, she meant it. It was difficult for Cyran to parse through his muddled thoughts and feelings, but this much he knew. Del was holding his hand, and they were safe in this bed for the time being. And she was warm…

So very warm.

So much so that he did not want to wake come morning.

There was a chill in the air, the sun not yet rising over snow-capped mountain peaks visible from the window of their room. And yet, holding onto Del, Cyran felt anything but. Somewhere along the line he’d ended up laying on top of her like a cat lounging on a heated rock - something that normally would have left him bashful and sheepish, but he was comfortable right now. He almost didn’t want to move.

But all good things, eventually, had to come to an end.

The sound of crashing and bustling downstairs from bartenders and cooks getting breakfast ready for the morning visitors roused Cyran from his sleep. He blinked awake, bleary, unsurprised to find Del still underneath him. She was barely moving, as if she was still asleep, but Cyran could feel awareness filtering through their bond. She was only pretending. Perhaps she hadn’t wanted to move and disturb him.

With great reluctance, he pulled himself up and into a sitting position before moving to brush some curls off of Del’s face. “… Good morning.” He murmured, warmth and gratitude and adoration in his voice so overwhelming it was difficult to quantify. “I trust that you slept well?”

---

Getting ready for the hunt was a quiet affair. Quiet, but comfortable. They made little small talk like they had yesterday, but moved with an ease around one another that spoke of experience and comfortability around one another. Cyran went about the business of strapping his knives to his belt - Spell Slicer and Cold Steel, Mercy’s Lament and Nothing, and with great care, fastened Wraithsbane to the collection. The black-leather sheath was natural where it was strapped to his side.

It took some time to get bundled up in enough layers to make sure that they could brave the cold, but by the time he finished securing his coat, there was no putting this task off anymore. The bubble that they’d found themselves in had burst, and he had to focus on what had brought them to Frostgale in the first place.

It was time to start the hunt.