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Alorha hadn’t realised how closely she had been watching him until he paused, her attention following every small shift in his expression as though she were trying to understand not just what he was saying, but how it all fit together. There was something quietly fascinating about seeing him like this—so entirely absorbed in something he enjoyed, speaking without hesitation, without that careful restraint she had grown used to. It made the room feel different again, lighter somehow, as though the weight of the castle didn’t quite reach them here. When he mentioned opening the windows, her gaze instinctively lifted toward them, studying the frames with a more critical eye than before. “I hadn’t even considered that,” she admitted, stepping a little closer as though the idea alone made the windows more interesting. “But it would make a difference.” Fresh air, not just light. The thought of it—of the room not feeling so closed off from everything outside—settled pleasantly in her mind. “If they’ve been shut that long, it might take some effort,” she added, glancing back at him. “But I think it’s worth trying.” His comment about the sheets earned a soft laugh from her, quieter than before but no less genuine. “Then I trust your judgement,” she replied lightly. “Though that might be more reason to replace them entirely.” There was a hint of teasing in her tone now, easy and familiar, the kind that came without thinking. But when her question made him pause, her expression shifted again—not guarded, but attentive in a different way. She watched as he thought it through, listened as he explained it in a way that wasn’t quite an explanation at all. A knack for art. Imagination. Something to keep him sane. The words were simple, but they carried more weight than he seemed to realise, and she didn’t interrupt them, didn’t try to reshape them into something neater or easier to understand. Instead, she let them settle. “That makes sense,” she said quietly after a moment, her tone softer now, more thoughtful than before. “If you’ve spent that long imagining things differently… it’s not surprising you know how to change them.” Her gaze lingered on him just a second longer before drifting down to the pigments he had begun to sort through, giving him space again without pulling away entirely. When he added his amused comment about the castle’s decorators, the faintest smile returned. “I suspect they would be deeply offended to hear that,” she noted, though there was no real disagreement in her voice. If anything, she seemed quietly inclined to agree. She watched him work for a few minutes without speaking, her attention caught by the process itself—the way he mixed powders, adjusted shades, tested combinations with an ease that felt almost instinctive. It was different from the structured conversations of the meeting, different from anything she had been expected to understand since arriving here. There was no pressure to get it right immediately, no scrutiny. Just… creation. When he called her over, she stepped closer without hesitation, crouching slightly beside him so she could see the colors properly. For a moment, she didn’t speak at all, just studied them—really studied them this time, noticing the differences rather than letting them blur together. “This one,” she said finally, pointing lightly to one of the softer greens, her voice thoughtful. “It feels… calmer.” Her gaze shifted to another, slightly deeper shade beside it. “And that one has more depth. I think you were right about combining them.” She tilted her head slightly, considering the way the colors worked together rather than on their own, her earlier uncertainty replaced with quiet focus. “The lighter one for most of the walls,” she continued slowly, thinking it through as she spoke, “and the darker for the accent… with whatever design you’re planning layered over it.” There was the smallest hint of curiosity again in that last part, though she still didn’t press him on it. Then she glanced at him, a faint warmth in her expression. “I like them,” she said simply. |
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Sage had hummed softly in agreement when she mentioned opening the windows might prove to be difficult. "I'm pretty sure they're rusted shut," he noted, wrinkling his nose slightly. "I can't remember the last time they've been opened," he added with a small shake to his head. If it had been up to him, they'd have been open much more often, but the old queen had preferred the darkness. He was very glad she was gone. He hummed softly when she agreed his skill set made, sense, kneeling down among the pigments. "I imagined things differently so often," he admitted with a soft chuckle. "When things got bad I'd always just...imagine myself somewhere else. The whips were just tree branches or someone fucking me was a beach scene, with the waves there." He shrugged then, not trying to give her a sob story or anything like that, but just ...let her know. He'd always had an imagination, and it had helped him get through so much. He glanced back up at her though, offering her a small smile. "Never thought things would ever actually change though," he noted. "But here you are." He studied her for a moment longer before going back to mixing the paint colors together before showing them to her. When she picked out the colors she liked best, he grinned and nodding, having liked the same ones himself. "Me too," he noted lightly. "They seem....more alive. But not as busy as some of the other ones," he added, pursing his lips slightly in thought. "We can do the lighter colors first....open the room up before adding in the darker shade," he noted after a moment, casting her a quick glance to make sure she was ok with that. When she nodded in agreement, he grinned excitedly and moved to grab a bottle of oil from the crate they had there. He poured it in over the powders, focusing on grinding it all down and together, muscles in his back and forearms working as he kneeled over the bowl. He could feel Alorha's gaze on him, though he didn't mind at all. She was curious, he supposed, and he certainly wasn't going to be upset over it at all. Besides, this wouldn't take any more than ten minutes or so before the paint would be ready and they could get to work. |
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Alorha let the quiet stretch this time, not out of uncertainty but out of intention. The sound of the stone grinding against the bowl filled the space between them in a steady, almost soothing rhythm, and she found herself focusing on that instead of the thoughts that kept trying to pull her back a few moments earlier. It would have been easy to linger there—to turn his words over, to try and respond to them properly, to say something that acknowledged the weight of what he had shared—but he had already moved forward, already returned to something simpler, something safe. She understood, instinctively, that following him there mattered more than saying the perfect thing. So she stayed beside him, her presence quiet rather than pressing, her attention settling on the way the pigments shifted under his hands. From this close, the process was more intricate than she had expected. The powders, dull and uneven at first, deepened as the oil worked through them, transforming into something smoother, richer, almost luminous in comparison. She watched the change carefully, her head tilted slightly as though studying it might help her understand not just the result, but the method behind it. There was something grounding in it, in seeing how something scattered and separate could be worked into cohesion with patience alone. Her gaze flicked briefly to his hands again—stronger than she had first assumed, marked in ways she was trying very deliberately not to dwell on—and then back to the bowl, her fingers curling lightly around the handle of the brush she still held. She had to remind herself not to stare, not to let her thoughts show too clearly in her expression. It wasn’t pity she felt, and she refused to let it become that. But awareness lingered now in a way it hadn’t before, threading quietly through everything she noticed. “I think starting with the lighter colours will help more than anything else,” she said after a moment, her voice calm, measured, and deliberately focused on the task in front of them. She shifted slightly where she crouched, the fabric of her sleeve brushing softly against the floor as she adjusted her balance. Her gaze lifted briefly, tracing the walls again, imagining them softened, opened, changed. “It feels… closed as it is,” she added, the faintest crease touching her brow as she considered it. “Not just dark. Heavy.” The word lingered a second before she let it settle, her eyes drifting toward the windows once more. Even now, with the afternoon light pressing faintly through the glass, they felt like barriers more than openings. “If we can get those open eventually,” she continued, quieter now, almost thoughtful rather than conversational, “I think it would change the whole room. Not just how it looks.” She exhaled softly, more to herself than anything else, before her attention returned to him. It was easier, she found, to focus on what they were building here—on the small, tangible act of changing something—than on everything else that existed beyond these walls. Here, at least, there was control. Choice. Something that could be shaped rather than endured. She turned the brush slowly between her fingers, testing its weight again, the motion absentminded but grounding. “You’ll have to show me how much to use,” she added after a moment, glancing at him properly now, her expression softer again but steadier than it had been earlier. “I don’t think guessing is the best approach when we’re working with something that stains.” There was a faint hint of humour in that, though it remained understated, more in the softness of her tone than in any obvious expression. She caught herself before continuing further, aware of the familiar urge to keep speaking, to fill the quiet simply because it was there. Instead, she let the words settle and allowed the silence to return naturally, her attention slipping back to the paint as it came together under his hands. After a moment, she shifted just slightly closer—not enough to crowd him, but enough that she could see more clearly, enough that their proximity felt intentional rather than incidental. For a while, she said nothing at all. It wasn’t an empty silence, nor an uncomfortable one. Her thoughts still moved, still circled in the background, but they no longer pressed forward quite so insistently. Instead, she let herself simply be present in the moment—the quiet scrape of stone, the faint scent of oil, the slow transformation of colour beneath his hands. It was a small thing, perhaps, in the grand scale of everything waiting for her beyond this room, but it felt important in a way she couldn’t quite put into words. Something steady. Something real. |
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Sage was glad when she didn't comment on the things he'd described to her. He didn't need her to apologize for what other had done ...didn't need her pity. He simply wanted her to know. To understand him a little bit better. And it seemed like that's what she had done. He was taking risks, telling her these things. He never thought he'd be able to open up to anyone like this. And truthfully, it still scared him. Opening his heart and giving her his trust was terrifying. But he desperately wanted this to work out. Her chose to ignore those thoughts and focus on the task at hand, just like Alorha had chosen to do, though. He couldn't dwell on his fears. If he did, he'd never have even taken the chance to start talking to her. He wouldnt have this. When she agreed she'd like to start with the lighter colors, he nodded with a soft hum of agreement. "Once the paint is dry we can add in lighter curtains ...that will help with most of the lighting issues," he noted happily, looking around the room, imagining it as it would be once they were done with it all. "And I'll work on the window more tomorrow....try to see if I can get it to open," he added. He didn't think they'd have time today to do it before the sun went down, and he would probably need more light than just a lamp to work the window loose again. For now, though, they just needed to take it one step at a time. The painting. It was only a few minutes later that the paints had been fully smoothed out, and he held up the stone bowl with a soft hum. "What do you think of this," he asked her, feeling fairly proud of the color he'd come up with. Adding the oil did change it very, very slightly....but not enough to really make any difference. Alorha was close, pretty much just peering over his shoulder, so he mostly just tilted it so it caught the light a bit more so she could see it better. He didn't mind her being close at all....in fact, there was a certain calmness that came with trusting her to be so close and not hurt him. It was kind of nice, if he was being honest. A comfortable familiarity he had never felt with anyone before, except for maybe his younger sister, but she was always too young to really do much when they were still together. |
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Alorha let the brush hover for a moment, the green still clinging to the bristles, but her attention had already slipped away from it. The walls, the colour, the careful planning—it all faded a little at the edges as her thoughts pulled her back to the morning. The long table. The scrape of chairs against stone. The way every conversation had paused, even just slightly, when she spoke—as though the room itself had been waiting to see if she would falter. Her fingers tightened faintly around the handle. “I kept replaying it,” she said after a moment, her voice quieter now, less certain than it had been a few minutes ago. Her gaze drifted, not quite focusing on anything in front of her. “The moment with the supply reports… when he asked if I wanted to change the routes.” A small pause followed, her brow creasing slightly as she thought it through again. “I should have answered faster. I knew the information—I recognised it—but I hesitated.” She exhaled softly. “It felt longer than it probably was.” Her thumb shifted against the wood of the brush, rubbing lightly over a faint groove as though grounding herself in the sensation. “And then later, with the map,” she continued, a little more steadily now, though the tension hadn’t quite left her voice, “I asked about the reinforcements, which was fine, but I wasn’t sure if I should have already known the answer. Or if asking made it obvious that I didn’t.” She shook her head slightly, more at herself than anything else. “No one said anything, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t thinking it.” Her gaze flicked briefly toward the door, as if the council chamber might be waiting just beyond it rather than somewhere else entirely. “They all spoke like it was… routine,” she went on, softer now. “Trade routes, grain storage, troop movements—like it was all just numbers and lines on paper.” Her lips pressed together faintly. “And I kept thinking about the villages on that map. The valley they mentioned. If I say the wrong thing, it isn’t just a mistake on paper.” A small pause, her voice dipping slightly. “It’s people.” She let that sit for a second, her grip on the brush loosening again as she forced herself to breathe more evenly. “I don’t think they noticed,” she added after a moment, quieter now, almost thoughtful. “Or if they did, they didn’t show it. They nodded. Took notes. Moved on.” Her mouth curved faintly, but there was no real humour in it. “Which somehow makes it worse. I can’t tell if I did well enough or if they’re just… waiting.” Her gaze lowered then, settling on the faint smear of green near the tip of the brush. “I’ve never had to be certain before,” she said, more simply now. “Not like that. I’ve been taught how to speak, how to respond, how to… appear composed.” A faint exhale left her. “But sitting there and knowing that what I say actually changes things—” She didn’t finish the sentence, but the weight of it lingered anyway. For a moment, she fell quiet, her thoughts still moving but slower now, less tangled than they had been when she first started speaking. Then she glanced at him, just briefly, before looking away again—not avoiding him, just… easing the intensity of it. “You were there,” she said, softer now. “Did it seem obvious?” There was no defensiveness in the question, just quiet honesty. “That I didn’t quite… belong there yet?” She shifted slightly, adjusting her grip on the brush again, though she still didn’t move toward the wall. The paint had become secondary without her meaning it to. “I don’t expect to be perfect,” she added after a second, almost as if correcting herself. “I know that’s not realistic.” A small pause followed, her expression tightening just slightly. “But I’d rather not look like I’ve been placed somewhere I don’t understand.” Her lips pressed together again, then eased. “I am glad you were there,” she said more quietly, the words steadier this time. “When I asked that question about the valley… I almost didn’t. I thought it might sound foolish.” Her gaze flicked up briefly, a faint, fleeting honesty in it. “But knowing you were there made it easier to say it anyway.” She looked back down at the brush, turning it once between her fingers. “I think I’m going to need that,” she admitted, softer still. “At least for a while.” |
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Sage had begun painting the first wall alongside Alorha happily, content with the silence stretching between them. When she begun talking though, he paused briefly, glancing over in her direction. He waited for her to finish before responding, humming softly as he continued moving the brush along the wall, slowly turning the space into something of their own. "Well, when youve grown up as a noble and have been in thousands of meeting like many of them have, it does become routine," he noted softly. Then he shrugged. "But that's not always good either. Your question about the trade routes wasn't something any of them thought to ask about - but it was important all the same." He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "You're not bringing incompetence to the table, you're bringing a new mindset. One that can look out of the box that they've become so comfortable in." He glanced over at her again, dipping the brush into the paint as he did so. "If they didn't respect you, you would know," he noted quietly. "The servants would know. Were quiet, hidden in the corners but....we hear things. And the nobles don't watch their mouths as closely around us," he added. "You've earned their respect....at least the important ones.they all recognize the benefits you bring to them." At her comment about being placed somewhere she didn't understand, he hummed softly as he thought, looking back at the wall and lifting the brush to it again. "Sometimes being perfect isn't what's best for people," he noted softly. "None of us are perfect. Even the nobles who have been doing this sort of thing their whole life have moments where they doing themselves." He let out a soft sigh then, focusing on her words and letting his hands continue the painting motion he knew so well. "No one's perfect. But it allows them to grow. Even the not so great moments have their benefits." He would know ....his life hadn't exactly been easy. It still wasn't. But he'd learned things. Grown from a young age. It wasn't ideal, but it had its benefits. He had to dwell on that, or he'd completely break from the inside out. When she mentioned she was glad he was there, he paused, a sort of smile forming on his face before he kept going. "I'm afraid I can't do anything more than be there," he noted. "But I will always be there at your side," he promised, hoping that was true. War tended to take and take and take and never really give. He just hoped it wouldnt take from them any more than it already had. |
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Alorha didn’t answer him straight away. She kept painting, letting the soft, repetitive motion steady her while his words settled somewhere deeper than she expected. The wall in front of her was changing slowly, each stroke softening the weight of the room, but her thoughts were still caught somewhere between what he’d said and everything waiting for her beyond these walls. Respect. A new mindset. Important questions. She understood what he meant—she did—but it didn’t quite quiet the part of her that felt like she was standing in a place meant for someone else. Her brush slowed slightly, smoothing over a faint uneven edge before she spoke, her voice quieter than before, less certain. “It still feels like it could have been anyone,” she said, not looking at him, her gaze fixed on the stretch of wall in front of her. “Anyone placed there would have asked something different. Not necessarily better… just different.” There was no bitterness in it, just a quiet honesty that came from not quite believing she was as singular as everyone seemed to insist. “I’m not… bringing something special. I’m just new to it.” The word lingered, carrying more weight than it should have. New, and untested, and unfamiliar with a world that seemed to expect certainty from her. She let out a slow breath, steadying her hand as she continued painting, the faint scrape of bristles against stone filling the brief silence that followed. His reassurance hadn’t been dismissed—it sat with her, carefully held—but it didn’t erase the underlying truth that she was, in every meaningful way, a stranger to all of this. A stranger wearing a crown, expected to understand things she had only just begun to see. When he spoke about imperfection, about growth, her gaze dipped slightly, following the line of fresh paint as it stretched across the wall. There was something in that she could hold onto, even if it didn’t fully settle her. Not perfect. Learning. It sounded reasonable when he said it, easier than it felt from where she stood. But it was his last words that stayed with her most. Her hand stilled—not for long, just a second—before she forced it to move again, though slower now, more deliberate. That promise, given so simply, without hesitation. It settled into her chest with a quiet warmth that she hadn’t expected, something steady and grounding in a way nothing else had been since she’d arrived here. For a moment, she just let herself feel it—the relief of not being entirely alone in this, of having someone who chose to stay. And then, just as quickly, came the softer edge of it—something quieter than guilt, but not entirely free of it either. “You make it sound easy,” she said softly, almost under her breath, though there was no edge to it. If anything, there was something lighter there now, a faint, fleeting hint of something almost amused. “Staying.” Her gaze flickered briefly in his direction before returning to the wall, her expression gentler than before. “I am glad you will,” she added, more quietly. “It… makes this feel a little less impossible.” Her grip on the brush tightened slightly before easing again, her attention dropping to the faint streaks of paint along her fingers. “But that’s why I have to be careful with it,” she continued, more quietly now. “With you.” A small pause followed, her thoughts shifting, settling into something more grounded. “This consort position… it isn’t just a title. It would tie you to me in a way that isn’t easily undone. It would put you in front of people who would watch you, judge you… use you, if they could, and have. I don't want that for you.” She stepped back slightly, just enough to look over the section they’d finished, though her focus wasn’t entirely on the wall anymore. “We’ve only known each other a few days,” she went on, softer still, though steadier now. She hesitated, not quite finishing the thought, her expression tightening faintly before smoothing out again. “I don’t want you caught in something like that because of me. Not without understanding what it could cost you.” The brush moved again, slower now, her strokes more absent as her thoughts continued to turn. “It would be easier,” she admitted quietly, “to just accept it. To let you stay there, beside me, because it makes this feel… manageable.” There was a faint exhale, almost a breath of something heavier than she intended. “But I don’t think I can make that choice lightly, not without putting you in harms way.” She paused again, longer this time, her gaze lowering to the floor before lifting back to the wall. When she spoke next, her voice was softer, but more certain—less tangled in doubt, more rooted in something she had decided for herself. “I don’t think I would want anyone in that position,” she said. “Not really. To be tied to something like that - with everything that comes with it.” The brush hovered briefly before continuing, smoothing the colour into something even, controlled. “And I know what that position has been before. What it’s done to people.” Her jaw tightened faintly, then eased. "And I don’t want to put you back into something like that,” she continued, quieter now, but firmer. “Not after everything you’ve already…” She didn’t finish it, but she didn’t need to. The meaning lingered all the same. A slow breath left her, steadier this time. “If I did choose it,” she added, “it wouldn’t be because of what's expected. Or because it makes things easier for me.” She paused, wrinkling her nose. "Well, maybe a little to make my life easier." She mused dimly. Her gaze flickered downward briefly before returning to the wall. “It would have to be something that doesn’t leave you… unprotected in it.” Her fingers tightened slightly around the brush before relaxing again as she resumed a more even rhythm, grounding herself in the motion. “I don’t know yet how to do that,” she admitted, softer again, though no less certain. “But I would want to keep you safe. If I can.” The words weren’t dramatic, nor were they spoken loudly but they settled between them with quiet weight all the same. Beneath it all, steady and undeniable, was that same thread of gratitude she hadn’t quite found a way to put into words. To have a friend like Sage in a place like this - someone who genuinely wanted the best for you and those around them - was near to impossible. She didn't know how to get that across to him. |
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Sage nodded along to her comments about being different, understanding where she was coming from. "Sometimes different is better," he noted with a soft shrug, dipping his brush into the paint again. "In your case, I'm going to say it's a very significant change for the better," he added. He knew she wouldn't fully believe what he was saying, at least not yet, but when you told someone something for long enough, he knew he started to believe it. And he figured it would be easier for her to start to believe that she was a good queen than it was for him to start referring to himself as an object, like everyone else did. As she continued to speak though, about him, his hand stilled, and he turned his head to watch her, a little confused as to why she wanted so badly to protect him. He didn't think he deserved quite that much. He hadn't even known if she'd considered him a true friend or not. So it was a bit surprising to hear this from her. He certainly hasn't heard it from anyone before. He was quiet for a moment after she stopped, just blinking and shaking his head, not sure what to say. "But it is," he noted. "Easy, I mean. To stay." He turned back to the wall then, looking down at the paintbrush in his hand, turning it over and over between his fingers. "People have been watching and judging and using me for years," he noted quietly, trying to word this the way he wanted it to be said. "There is nothing they can do to me to hurt me any more. It all just....blends together now," he admitted, a soft shake of his head casing the bits of loose hair that had fallen from its bun to shift around his face slightly. "There will be a cost no matter what I do," he pointed out. "I'll never be safe here. Not fully." He tilted his head slightly, acknowledging that fact. "But this title does come with some protection, as long as it's someone like you in charge of me." He glanced back over at her, attempting a small smile, though he probably didn't do very good. "I was used by the other people in this castle because my master let them. If you claim me, make it clear to everyone else that I'm not theirs to take....that is protection, in a way," he mused, turning to look back at the wall. He was silent for a moment, before speaking up again. "But whether you choose to tie that knot, to accept that eventually you will need to use me yourself.....or whether you'd get rid of it, and take the chance of what happens then...that's up to you," he noted simply, going back to painting, purpose trying not to dwell on it. What if she didn't choose him? He knew what would happen then. Horrible things - things where he wished they'd just kill him and be done with it, though he doubted that would happen. She wouldn't want to use him, he knew that, but he'd rather it be her than everyone else in the castle. His chest felt like it was being constricted, pulse hammering so loud he was sure she could hear it. But he forced his breath, and his hand, steady. He didn't want to scare her, or show her just how nervous he was about the whole thing. Because the truth was, he did need her protection. He needed her to claim him, to mark him as her own, to keep him safe from everyone around him. He didn't think he could survive getting tossed around between nobles for much longer. And if he lost what they had because she didn't want to use him once or twice? He wasn't sure he could forgive himself for that either. |
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Alorha didn’t answer him straight away. The quiet stretched again, but this time it settled heavier between them, not empty but full of everything he hadn’t quite said outright. Her brush continued its slow path along the wall, the soft drag of bristles against stone grounding in a way her thoughts weren’t. The paint spread evenly beneath her hand, pale green softening the harshness of the room inch by inch, but her focus had drifted—caught somewhere in the weight of his words, in the way he spoke about it all as though it were already decided. As though there was nothing left to argue against, nothing left to protect. Her grip tightened slightly without her meaning it to, the stroke pressing a little firmer before she corrected it, smoothing it back into something controlled. That quiet acceptance unsettled her more than anything else. Not because she didn’t believe him—she did—but because of how easily he carried it. How normal it had become. “I don’t think I’ll ever be comfortable hearing you say that,” she said after a while, her voice soft but steady, breaking the silence without looking at him. “That there’s nothing left to hurt.” There was no sharpness in it, no attempt to push back too hard—just a quiet refusal to let that settle as something unquestioned. Her gaze stayed on the wall, following the line where fresh paint met old stone, as though anchoring herself there kept everything else from slipping too far. She let out a small breath, slower this time, her shoulders easing just slightly as she adjusted her stance. “Maybe you’re right,” she continued, more thoughtfully, her tone gentler but no less certain. “Maybe there’s always going to be a cost here. For both of us. For anyone in this place.” The words came easier now—not because they were simple, but because she was beginning to accept that part without letting it define everything else. “But that doesn’t mean I have to accept it as something fixed. Or unchangeable.” Her brush moved again, slower, more deliberate, smoothing over a faint unevenness as if the act itself helped reinforce the thought. When he spoke about the protection the title could offer, she didn’t interrupt this time. She let him finish, her expression shifting in small, thoughtful ways as she worked through it. That part she understood—more clearly than she wanted to. Power, even in a place like this, could still draw lines others wouldn’t cross. It wasn’t right, but it was real. And ignoring it wouldn’t make it disappear. “I understand what you’re saying,” she said quietly after a moment, her voice softer now but grounded. “About the protection. About what it would change.” There was no dismissal in it, no hesitation in acknowledging the truth of it. “And I won’t pretend that doesn’t matter. It does.” She stepped back just slightly, enough to take in the section of wall they’d covered, though her thoughts were still elsewhere, threading carefully through everything he’d laid out for her. “But I don’t like that those are the options,” she added, a faint crease forming between her brows as her gaze returned forward. “That it comes down to choosing which version of harm is easier to manage.” There was no anger in it, just a quiet, steady frustration—directed less at him and more at the situation itself, at the structure she had been placed into without understanding its full weight until now. Her brush lifted, then pressed lightly back to the wall, continuing the motion, slower now but more controlled. “I wouldn’t want anyone in that position,” she went on, her voice softening again, though the conviction didn’t waver. “Not you. Not anyone.” The words sat heavier this time, less uncertain than before, more clearly chosen. “And I don’t want to be someone who just accepts that this is how things are done.” She paused then, just briefly, her gaze lowering as her thoughts shifted again—this time not resisting, but adjusting. “But I also won’t ignore what you need,” she added more gently, the firmness easing into something quieter, more careful. “Or pretend that wanting something better changes what you’re dealing with right now.” That was the part she couldn’t escape, no matter how much she wished she could reshape it into something simpler. Her fingers tightened slightly around the brush before easing again, her voice dropping just a fraction. “You shouldn’t have to choose between being used and being… less used,” she murmured, almost under her breath, the words slipping out before she could refine them into something lighter. The silence that followed wasn’t as heavy as before, but it lingered, thoughtful rather than strained. When she spoke again, her tone was steadier, more resolved—even if the answer itself hadn’t fully formed yet. “I haven’t decided,” she said quietly, lifting her gaze slightly, though still not fully turning toward him. “And I won’t rush it. Not because I don’t understand what it means for you—but because I do.” Her hand resumed a more even rhythm, the motion grounding her again as she spoke. “But whatever I choose,” she continued after a moment, softer now, “it won’t be careless. And it won’t be because it’s the easiest answer.” There was something more certain in that now—still figuring itself out, but no longer uncertain in its intent. A faint shift followed, something lighter threading carefully back into her expression, subtle but deliberate. “And for what it’s worth,” she added, a hint of dry warmth returning despite everything, “I’d like to aim for something better than ‘it all blends together.’ That feels like a very low standard to work with.” It wasn’t a solution—not yet. But it was something steadier, something chosen rather than accepted. And for now, that was enough to keep moving forward. |
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When Alorha spoke up again, admitting she'd never get used to hearing him say there was nothing left to hurt, he hummed softly in acknowledgement. He knew it wasnt exactly something she wanted to hear, but it was the truth. They had already hurt him, more than she could begin to imagine. He'd told her some things, but not all. Not the most of it. She'd begun to get an idea of it, of course, but even so he knew this wasn't going to be an easy choice for her to make. He kept painting as she spoke, forcing his breathing and hands steady as the green continued to take over the wall they were working on. He understood what she was saying, and his shoulders did relax slightly as she explained her choices. She didn't want to choose....he understood that. But he also understood that sometimes, you couldn't change the rules, no matter how much you wanted to. Some of these rules were set. At her comment about being less used, he chuckled softly, shaking his head slightly. "Maybe," he noted softly. "But I don't think it would feel like you'd be using me," he thought out loud, cocking his head slightly to the side as he forced his hand to keep moving along the wall. "You've treated me well. Been kind to me. Given me part of myself back." He shrugged at that, a sort of half smile forming on his lips. "I think....I think it would more like I was doing something to help return the favor," he mused. If she chose him, she'd would have to fuck him at some point. That was unavoidable. But.... He didn't think he minded. Not that much. He knew she didn't like the situation, but he also knew she'd be kind about it. Gentle. He did trust her. At her last comment, he chuckled softly, turning to glance over at her with a grin. "Well, you've started that already," he noted. "You've given me a lot of things that I haven't had for years. Maybe ever." He glanced back to their wall, which was almost fully painted by now. "So I figure that's more than enough for me." He was quiet for a moment, though spoke up again after a bit of silence. "You don't need to make a decision now," he murmured. He knew how hard it would be for her to accept that. "But whatever you do chose, I trust you," he offered, hoping that would ease her burdens at least a little bit. |
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Warming, with Sleet and Heavy Icing
