Hihi, Kitty here! This'll be the first story I post on here, so I hope that you enjoy? Ehehe… Please give lots of feedback that you have, I'm very curious and would like to listen and improve! It's League of Legends fic, with TalKat as the main pairing. Sorry if you don't like them, I happen to particularly ship these two very hard for a multitude of reasons-
Some important notes though- this is before Marcus (Katarina's father) disappeared, so he comes up a bit ^ ^ of course, everything he says & how he acts is all just personal headcanons, since Riot never published anything official…..
Okay! Enough of that, onto the story ^ ^ I hope you enjoy!
Hostility. Perhaps the first, and best, word to describe how she felt when she saw him walking through their doors, his bent stature, hunched behind Marcus as though ashamed…definitely ashamed. She did not know what to make of the boy when she saw him walking beside her father, puzzled and conflicted as to why her father would bring a street rat home in the first place. She did not know what he did to earn her father's respect or trust, both of which were not handed out so easily, and thus despite her father's clear approval, she still felt reserved, wary. He was not restrained by any means; observant emerald hues spot no glint of steel or metal on his person (Marcus most likely disposed of any weapon the boy had before bringing him here). He walked freely, for the most part, it was hard to say he walked freely when he was just as cautious, just as reserved, just as wary- just as hostile as she was. He reeked of blood and sewage, he looked as though he had crawled through eight layers of straight hell, his eyes burning with a type of intensity she had only seen a handful of times before, and she knew immediately, he was a fighter.
Scrawny. The second word to pop into her mind as she examined the awed boy. His eyes were large and absorbent, taking in everything that their house had to offer, his nose twitching slightly at the scent of roses and incense. He was thin, his clothes, though almost rags, were baggy and clung to him heavily, as if begging to be released from their duty. He was strikingly different from the Du Couteau's, even if they were to put him in proper and clean clothes, it would be painfully obvious he wasn't one of them. Beside Marcus, the boy looked as though he were merely a twig, able to snap in the quickest instant, under any immediate pressure. His arms were thin, his fingers fidgeting as though they were aching for something to latch onto and hold. He wasn't used to having empty hands, his knuckles and fingers looked hungry, they were too ready to grip onto something – anything – and swing. Everything about him screamed that he was hungry.
Confusion. Why did Marcus bring this…boy home? Street rats belong on the streets, though she'd never voice anything like that in front of her father. He was one of the few who had a larger heart than most, his patience did not wear thin as quickly as hers often did; he was the type of person who believed that everyone deserves a chance, and those who are privileged were born to give those chances. Sure, Katarina shared the same sentiment, to some extent, that's what the army was there for, right? So that those without chances could have their chance. This was what drove Noxus, made Noxus powerful, unique. Noxus gave everyone that chance, so long as they were willing to fight for it; so long as an individual had the strength to drag themselves up from the ground and fight- fight to survive. There were many strong people in Noxus, street rat or not, she did not see the reason for bringing the boy into their home. Precisely because there was no reason for bringing him home. It was probably a whim, something her father took upon himself to… to what? Satisfy a need? To satisfy a curiosity?
Talon was the boy's name. 'Talon, hm? How befitting,' she thought to herself, that a boy who knew of nothing but fighting would be named something so…malicious? No, that wasn't the right word. Nonetheless, she thought it fit the boy well, with hands and eyes so hungry, like claws reaching to sink into their target. She felt something grow inside her, a feeling perhaps akin to pity, a sort of lingering sadness for the boy, though it was not enough to shake feelings of doubt and estrangement that clouded her mind when she gazed at him. When he tried to speak, he did not speak very well, his voice mumbled and coarse when he spoke, likely his tongue was not used to being used. Still, she knew more than anyone that one does not need a sharp tongue to survive, only quick wits and a will.
"You know, Talon doesn't actually have a name," Marcus told her later that fateful evening when he had brought the boy in, confiding in her, his voice low, as though he were afraid that the boy would hear him giving out such a secret.
"I was the one who gave him the one he bears, now. It's easier than referring to him as Boy, I think," he laughed, but she was silent. Surprise riddled her eyes, yet she had expected nothing more. She had always assumed everyone knew their name, but if she thought about it, it made sense to her that someone like him wouldn't have a name, much less know it. It made her ponder, though, whether he was an orphan or not, who left their child alone to gripe at the harshness of the world, the cruelty of the streets of Noxus was not something she was blind to. It did not change her opinion very much, but made her eyes soften in the slightest when regarding the boy later even if she didn't want to. Marcus had a way with things, had a way with skewing one's perspective slightly, so to gaze at things in a slightly different way.
"I think it will be good. To have him in our home." Why. Why was he here? 'Why does he have your favor?' She couldn't help but think that to herself, and it begrudgingly dawned to her that she was jealous of how quickly this boy won her father over. Her father.
"He's talented, strong. Even I had trouble with him with I fought him." Strength… That's what won him over? The boy's strength? "He has a lot to learn, though, so I'm depending on you, Kat." A way with things, a way with words.
"Of course, father." She responded, though she could not tell if she sounded entirely pleased.
She spoke nothing of him at the time; if it was to please her father then she would abide by it, but the boy never wandered far from her snakelike eyes. She was always one to follow her intuition, that's what kept her alive, it was sharp, almost as sharp as her blades; why would she doubt them now? Though, as time wore on by, the more familiar he felt to her, the more natural it was to have him in their home, the more usual it was to have him there. A sense of fondness washed over her, in every bit of the word, and the more natural it felt for him to be by her side. He had done nothing outlandish to win her trust, no, he merely existed day to day by her side – training, sparring, learning under her, with her. He was constantly with her after that day, she wondered if Marcus had planned it this way, to tell her to get over her misplaced fear, her natural hostility and judgement.
Still, the assassin maintained her wariness, though a part of her now pleaded against it. She did not know what to make of him, he was a wild card. He was talented, performing almost as well as she did on missions that her father assigned, it was not lost to her how he impressed her father or how he managed to maintain a spot in their household. His strength and skill with the blade was not to be questioned, she knew that much. But she did not know what to make of him. He was silent when he was with her, though she could not say she made much effort to spark a conversation, either. They appreciated each other's company, words were not needed when they were together, they simply coexisted, and it frightened her. Marcus had told her to value family in the highest regard, and she did, she lived by that truth every day. 'But what do I do if someone else is also growing important?' She was afraid it would impede on her ability to perform, she was afraid it would cause her to fail. Even if she did fail, it would be her own fault; she failed to distance herself when she should've – he wasn't family, he shouldn't be so important!
He was with them when it happened, the terrible mistake that she had made while on a mission on battlegrounds, her overconfidence costing both herself and her nation greatly. She could remember the task vividly, it was a simple task, so much so that she could've felt offended for being given something so easy. Someone of her caliber deserved something more challenging, she deserved to be challenged, how could ridding of such a low-ranking officer bring glory to Noxus? His arrival was too tantalizing to pass, the Demacian General would make for a much more suitable target for her – and her people would be pleased.
Fate saw things differently, however, their ambush was not something she accounted for in her calculations. Alas, her mistake was made, as she had failed to complete her initial objective, her people suffered heavily. Though no one blamed her for what she had done, she blamed herself more than enough to cover all the men within her camp and then some. How could she be so foolish? When had she allowed herself to grow so haughty, so narcissistic? Pride cometh before the fall, how could she not have seen? How could she had been so blind…
She resolved to complete her original objective that evening, but now he was protected. He had done Demacia such a great deed, he even drew a draw from the daunting Noxian army. A promotion was sure to come his way, and cautioned celebrations were in the makings. He had his own tent now, that Demacian officer; she was close enough to hear the plans that spilled from his lips like secrets that she could pluck and take. She could leave now, she could take back what she had learned and allow the Noxian generals to handle the rest…but she knew it would not be enough. Not enough for her, anyway.
Fear poisoned her veins, and for a second, she froze. Hunched in a tree, sharp hues glanced around for an opportunity, but she could not find one; stealth was no longer a luxury that was available to her. To eliminate him meant that she would need to expose herself, throw away her stealth – her very lifeline. She hesitated, but a voice of reason rang out within her. 'Only fools hesitate,' it quietly reminded her, and she forced herself to calm. Her fingers tightened around her twin daggers, a deep inhale – then everything went black.
When her vision returned to her, she found herself confused, and terribly out of breath. Her chest heaved, legs weakened and wobbly as she stood. She could not feel pain, but felt the wound over her eye throbbing with each heartbeat as she gazed over the bloodied battlefield. She was the only one left standing. A wild grin overcame her features, as she sank to her knees, her daggers falling from her hands. Only one thought rang clear in her mind.
'I DID IT.'
When she returned to Noxus, she was greeted with cheers and celebrations. People praised her, congratulated her, showered her in gifts and songs of bravery. She returned to Noxus a hero, hailed as a valiant soldier who had done the Noxian army a great deed, avenging her fallen comrades. No one spoke of her mistake. Not one said a word.
When she returned home to Marcus – to Talon – she hung her head in shame. The wound over her eye still throbbed with pain, it was still bleeding. Marcus took her face in his hands, removed the bandages that were wrapped over her wound, gazing at the fresh cut that marred her face. Talon watched, from a distance, somehow the tables were turned in this very moment. It wasn't like her to make such a careless mistake, it wasn't like her to let her pride get in her way. Still, the room was silent. No one said a word. Marcus took her into his arms, and for the first time since returning home, Katarina wept.
He didn't say much about the incident, nor did he inquire about what happened. He was silent, as always, and watchful. His actions were careful, cautioned as they always had been, but even more so now, as though he were trying to walk on eggshells when he was with her. She was thankful, it was his way of supporting her, and with all the noise that surrounded her daily, time with him was a solace. It was untradeable silence and peace, it was an erasure of the world around them, leaving only room for training and sparring. Nothing else mattered.
"Are you okay?"
The question came from him abruptly, several weeks later. Sure, her scar still hurt, and she still needed to medicate it every evening, but it had otherwise slipped her mind, the incident itself was, more or less, behind her. So, she could not help but be surprised when the question spilled from his lips on a sunny afternoon, both of them sweaty and hot, hiding from the merciless rays of the sun under the shade of the few trees that clumped together on their training grounds.
The question itself had been asked of her many times, and each time it was asked, it only irritated her more. It was something that she wanted to forget, and here these imbeciles continued to remind her of her folly, that question was enough for her to relive the guilt that consumed her if she stopped to think about it too long. It was enough for her to see the faces, their faces, enough for her to hear the screams and cries of pain, it haunted her every night. That one question was enough for her to relive everything and she hated it.
But hearing it from him left a different feeling within her. She looked up at him, in pleasant surprise, surprise with herself for not being angry, and surprise with him for asking in the first place. She didn't stop to wonder why it didn't leave such a sour taste in her mouth, she didn't stop to ponder why hearing those words from him made her feel better. She only offered him a wry smile, turning her gaze to the empty sparring grounds, then to her weapons.
"It's hot and I'm feeling insanely miserable training in this heat. What do you think?"
Her tongue was sharp, as it always was, her eyes keen and shining. Silence filled the space between them, comfortable silence. Her eyes closed for a moment, and she could hear him slowly slide down to sit beside her. It wasn't like him to ask questions. This might be the first time he asked her something that wasn't related to technique or style. The first time he asked about something other than sparring or mission orders. The first time he asked about her instead. Had he also been watching her this entire time? Silence.
"Thank you."
It came even more silently from her, and she could almost hear the slight smile that came over his lips. She smiled too.
They grew close, closer than she could've anticipated. The silence between them was still present, still comfortable, but they shared a knowing look, a slight glance was almost like a secret conversation exchanged between the two. The closer they grew, the more comfortable she was around him, and the more it began to confuse her. Where did he stand in her life? Since when did he become so integrated in her life? When did he become a pillar she could rely on? When? How?
Perhaps she noticed these strange feelings more clearly on one of their later tasks together. She realized how closely she held him to her heart, and how dangerous the boy was to be around. Her instincts told her that he would one day get her killed, but her heart suddenly thought, 'That wouldn't be such a bad way to die.' Dangerous, he was dangerous. More dangerous than her sister, more dangerous than a squadron of Demacian soldiers, he was dangerous in a different kind of way.
Their assignment, simply put, was to dispose of a Demacian count and his wife, reasons disclosed. It was an order, not from her father, but from someone higher and in a more powerful position than he was. She had no right to refuse, not that she planned to refuse in the first place. "Talon will be aiding you. I'm sure you have no objections." Her father's voice gave no room for objections, and they both nodded, exchanging glances briefly. If it was supposed to be so easy, why send them both? Something was amiss, but she did not question it. For as long as she had lived and worked under him, her father's judgment was never wrong. Why doubt him now?
Still, traces of doubt lingered in her mind that evening, not to the point where it impeded on her ability to perform, but merely gave way to extra caution. So, they were watchful, their bodies hidden within the cluster of trees, silent as Demacian foot soldiers patrolled the perimeter of the city. Their target lied within the large walls of Demacian City – the capital. He was a wealthy man, a count, why wouldn't he live within the inner sanctums? After all, it was the safest place to live in Demacia. Her fingers twitched with anticipation as she crouched, waiting for an opportunity to strike; he stood, perched besides her, watching like a predator eyes his prey. Slight movements caused rustling in the branches, a pair of foot soldiers pausing to gaze in their direction, their eyes seeing nothing- for there was nothing to see. A moment of hesitation had allowed them to slip by unnoticed, silently – what were assassins if not silent?
There was a reason Demacian missions were conducted strictly in the later evening- the city was like a shining beacon both literally and figuratively. The walls were painted white, structures stood tall and illuminated, everything was brilliantly light and blinding, but at dusk, there were shadows to hide behind, dark enough to hide even her brilliant red locks of hair. Besides, isn't it an assassin's pleasure to move freely in the dead of night? Swift movements could easily be blamed as a trick of the light, one's eyes seeing more than what was truly there, they'd be none the wiser.
She moved first and he would follow suit, moving along the city's walls noiselessly, hiding themselves in the trees and shadows from the towering buildings. Not many people roamed the streets at this time (she wondered if Demacians upheld a curfew, since they were always so uptight), the only other bodies they saw were those of soldiers and patrollers. 'Unnecessary, they are unnecessary, so ignore them,' she chided to herself, though she could not help but feel slightly unsatisfied. She was always one for a good fight. Her scar throbbed with a dull pain at that moment, reminding her of her hasty decision and the cost she had to pay, and her mind refocused, pushing that trivial thought out.
Their target's home was beside the Hall of Valor, a monument even she deemed as impressive, grand… beautiful. Its' towers and walls were expansive, in the center of the Hall twin statues of knights to commemorate those who had fallen in battle. She had respect for the Hall, even if Demacians were her enemies. They, too, mourned the fallen, both sides suffered, she could never forget that. She paused every chance she had, whenever a mission brought her here, to simply gaze and admire the grand building, emerald hues captivated by the brilliance of the Hall – even in the dead of night it shone so brightly. She wondered if those who kept the halls did that on purpose, so that it would serve as a beacon for the beacon. A gentle hand on her back reminded her to keep moving, and she turned to face the boy, his eyes just as curious, just as captivated. That's right, this was the first mission since he came into their household that he had entered this Demacian city. She knew he had been sent on a few missions on the outskirts of the large nation, but it must've been his first time seeing something like this.
Eyes remained trained on his slightly awestricken face, and something in her chest tightened; she exhaled sharply, when did she start holding her breath? Her heart was beating so heavily, to the point where it felt painful, what was this? Time slowed for a moment as she looked, gazed at him; her mind was blank at that moment, even as he turned to face her, his lips moving but she couldn't hear anything he was saying. She breathed in, slowly, reality suddenly rushing back to her like waves, his voice finally reaching her ears.
"What's wrong?" He breathed out, quietly, and her eyes closed, darkness enclosing her vision. 'What is this? Wrong, wrong…what's wrong… with me? I shouldn't have these kinds of feelings for you…' She turned away from him without a word, moving past the brilliant Hall of Valor, moving past the puzzling emotions that brewed within her. Emotions…were dangerous. She learned only to love family, she learned to respect the strong, the two lines should not be blurred. So, she asked herself once again, where did he stand? Her respect for him went beyond what she felt for Noxian heroes like Sion or her father, her love for him was different than the love she had for her family; a small fear began to bud and grow in her mind – if he was in danger, would she stop to save him? Would she jeopardize herself to help him? Would it impede of her ability to perform? Carry out her assignment?
That's what was wrong. Those answers should all be a no, but she found herself hesitating the more she pondered it. She knew the answer should be no, but her mind and heart immediately thought, 'Yes, why wouldn't I?' and that terrified her. Her mind fumbled, fingers trembled as her grip around her twin daggers tightened; they were approaching their target's home. It seemed quiet – the lights were out, not a soul appeared to be awake or active in the house – and perhaps that was what was so unsettling about it. She couldn't shake off the ominous feeling that loomed over her, she just felt so anxious.
They stood outside the count's home, gazing up at the large manor, neither of them moving yet. This was where they would part ways, for time being; it would be better to search for different ways into the home, and splitting would reduce the chances of being caught. Besides, assassins worked better alone. They exchanged glances before splitting, both dashing to opposite directions, disappearing into the darkness of the night.
She slipped inside without much difficulty – at the expense of a wooden door on the first floor – the floorboards creaking loudly under her weight. Her blood went cold for a moment, sharp eyes glancing about and finding nothing, she was still alone, and silent sigh escaping her lips. Even in the darkness, her red hair seemed to glow hauntingly, as though she were some sort of red phantom that ghosted through the house. And like a phantom she moved, soundlessly, swiftly, almost like a blur.
To say the count's home was large would be an understatement. She had always thought her home was grand, and it was, but she was awestricken by the luxurious lifestyle this man seemed to lead without a care. His home was filled with countless frivolities, a seemingly never-ending display of his affluence; random statues that loomed in the halls, large paintings whose inhabitants all seemed to peer at her as she passed, so much so that she kept glancing over her shoulder to be sure that no one was there. Exotic plants also decorated the hallways and ornate wreaths guarded the doors (and it wasn't even Christmas!), their colors so bright it could almost rival that of her hair.
She wandered for a short while, ascending the next flight of stairs she came across, her back pressed against the wall as she continued her search. A small smirk surfaced on her lips as she hurried along – it was almost like a race between her and Talon, a race she did not intend to lose. Of course, she knew where the count's bedroom was located, she had studied the map of the home very closely. Her miscalculation was that of misdirection; she did not quite know where she was located in his home. Not that it really mattered, she supposed. The count was on the fifth and highest floor, she only needed to find the staircases that led up to it.
Although she did not expect any sort of resistance, she never did quite expect things to be flowing as smoothly as they were. She was still on high alert, but she couldn't help but lower her guard in the slightest. No opposition at this rate only meant that they didn't know, they couldn't have known. She was not used to such defenselessness- most of her targets had caught wind of what the Noxian Command wished to do and hired countless guards and mercenaries to patrol their homes and their halls. Not that it ever mattered, anyway.
Still, it felt odd that things were flowing as smoothly as they were flowing, that it caused the assassin to hesitate. She had arrived upon the fourth floor, and it seemed that not a soul stirred, nothing was happening, no one was awake in the manor. She crouched by the staircase, closing her eyes and focusing, straining her ears to listen, listen for anything, any sound that might signal to a sign of life. As stealthy as an assassin may be, it was hard to be completely silent, especially at a time like this. There was always a creak in the floor, a short gasp, a rustle of fabric – she was trained in such a way that she could hear even the slightest of movements…but she heard nothing. Nothing.
She sulked around the upper level, cautiously, emerald hues peering at everything she passed, her footsteps felt heavy, loud in the dead quiet. Had Talon managed to find his way in? She didn't doubt the boy's capabilities in the slightest, not anymore at least, but even he could not hide the sound that his body weighed on the wooden floors, he could not suppress the slight sounds his cloak made when he walked speedily, his movements rushed, hurried. So, it irked her that the house was so silent, and silence was often where she felt the most comfort. It was jarring.
Two grand, intricately designed oaken doors gave away her target's location, it was almost comical how they felt an incessant need to separate their sleeping quarters from the rest of the rooms in this mansion. A smug grin surfaced on her lips as she slunk forward, quietly nudging the door open with her foot, a low creak threatening to give her away. She slowed, her body pressed against the doors, her chest tight and breath held, just a little further and she would be inside. Her eyes peered into the room, the foot of the bed in her sight, but the doors cut off whatever else she tried to see. It did not seem as though Talon was here, and she felt rather pleased with herself, beating him here – though, the smug feeling of victory quickly vanished. She was a veteran, and he was new; of course she would be more experienced than he.
She slipped in through the thin opening created from the doors, allowing them to shudder close again quietly, a quiet whump then silence once again. Tightly she gripped her daggers, she was sure her knuckles were white, as she gazed around the room, her body hiding in the shadows created by the moonlight. The noble's bed was centered against the western wall, a desk and vanity mirror to the right of the bed, and an antique, yet elegant, looking lamp to the left. She could see her own silhouette if she really stared through the mirror, traces of her burning red hair almost glowing even in the dark, and momentarily, she was entranced by her own appearance. Was this what she looked like? A red phantom maiden in the night?
Shaking off that thought, she moved, her legs carrying her faster than an untrained eye could register – shunpo, an ability that had taken her a long time to learn, to master, those who saw her move called them lightning steps – stopping right beside the bed, her daggers raised and sinking into warm flesh. Or, what should have been…
Her daggers found nothing but sheets and pillow fluff, and as she dragged, the loud sound of linen tearing filled her ears. Her eyes widened with confusion, and she suddenly grew frantic, stabbing over and over again into the bed, but none was resting there. Had she entered the wrong room? Was she on the wrong floor? Was the map wrong? Where could they be? She paused for a moment, her breath heavy, when something, for the briefest moment caught the corner of her eye – but it was too late. A sharp pain shot through the base of her skull, shuddering down her spine, and her vision blurred. She saw, a moment too late, through that mirror, a figure hovering over her, a large weapon in their hand as they loomed over her body. Her daggers cluttered to the ground, 'Shit, shit, shit… I can't… move my hands at all… My… vision…' She slumped into the arms of her assailant as they caught her from falling, from making more noise than she already had been. And as her eyes slowly, involuntarily closed, Katarina's last fleeting thought was not of herself, but of Talon. 'Please…be okay.'
When she awoke, she was outside, the moonlight touching her face, gently, like a caress, coaxing her awake. She could feel the bottom of her head throbbing, what happened? She couldn't remember, it felt hazy to her, it hurt to think about it too much. It was a pain. She turned over, realizing her head was resting on someone's lap, and she forced her eyes open once again, blinking slowly and crawling up the tattered blue cloth to his face. His gaze was fixated on her, his eyes shone with concern, his face adorned with small cuts and bruises. What happened? Why was she…resting here?
It rushed back to her then, what had happened, and she shot upward, sitting straight. Her head pounded even harder, and the pain suddenly felt amplified, and she didn't know what to think. Her head swirled with questions, her eyes darting around to take in their surroundings, as though checking if they were okay, before resting on his face. He wore an amused, but tired, look on his face, his hands resting against his abdomen. He breathed slowly, his eyes closing as though to rest for a moment. Had he been on look out this entire time? How long was she out? It was still evening, it couldn't have been that long… but still… She wondered if they had failed their objective. Had she been the reason why?
Almost as if he could read her mind, he pulled out a small medallion from his pocket, a round, silver medallion, fastened to a black leather strap, though the coin was slightly smeared with blood. Whose, she couldn't tell. He offered it to her, and she took it in both hands, her eyes glossing over the details of the coin, widening in an almost pleasant surprise, but mostly shining with relief. He grinned, she allowed him that.
"I did it."
"You did it," she responded softly, a small grin creeping up her lips, as well. It quickly vanished, though, as he had done it all alone. She had never felt so utterly useless in her life. How could she have not seen such an obvious trap? Of course they would know that they were coming. How wouldn't they? They always knew… and she should've known better. She was the veteran, she wasn't supposed to make such novel mistakes. Her hands tightened over the medallion, and her eyes fell from his face, unable to look him in the eye. She felt odd, an overwhelming sense of embarrassment and disappointment with herself – just like… the incident. Her scar throbbed painfully, and she could not hide the scornful look that came across her face.
"Are you hurt?"
Her voice quivered, it was different from how she usually spoke, the stubbornness was gone. He had risked himself for her, done the work of two because she had failed to do her small part. She needlessly put him in danger, and she should've paid the price for it, but she didn't. He had all the reason to abandon her there, it was her mistake, it's what she would've done. Her heart felt a sudden pang, a tightness welled up in her chest and her throat. Was it something she would've done? Would she have left him behind? The answer, as assassins, should so clearly be a yes, but she hesitated. Why?
His touch was gentle, like the moon, and warm, but sudden. It startled her, she flinched, but she did not move away. His thumb caressed her cheek tenderly, and her stomach twisted with an emotion she did not know how to describe. When her eyes rose to meet his, he shook his head.
'No,' his eyes spoke for him, and she understood.
'I'm fine.'
It wasn't disgust, not what she felt when she first laid her eyes on him. The hostility was no longer there, there was no more contempt. She felt oddly close to him, comfortable when he is close to her, since when had he become such an important staple in her life?
She leaned against his hand, allowing herself a moment more of vulnerability in front of him, the medallion falling onto her lap as she moved her hand over his. She held it, tentatively, moving her lips to kiss his gloved palm. His hand fell from her cheek, yet remained in her own, their fingers slowly entangling and intertwining. He motioned for her to move closer, and she complied, seating herself beside him, leaning into his side. Her head leaned against his shoulder, and then there was silence.
"I killed them all," he said, staunchly, ending the silence that sat between them, his voice low, soothing. She could feel his breath tickle her head, but she did not mind. She paid no heed. Her head still hurt, thoughts swirling around her mind, throbbing in pain. She internally blamed the attack earlier for her odd behavior, she would be normal in the morning, things would resume as they always had. This thing, this intimacy that existed would dissipate and disappear, surely, this would not last.
This was forbidden.
Her mind had not quieted, but she felt a sudden weight push down upon her, exhaustion consumed her body. She felt confused, she didn't understand, a part of her did not wish to understand. A part of her simply wished to exist in this moment, and her eyes closed, something lulling her to sleep. His head moved slightly, slightly, so that his lips just so happened to brush against the side of her head when he whispered, "So rest. I will protect you, as your blade's shadow."
Well, I hope you enjoyed? ^ ^
By the way… A part of the story plays off of a panel that a lovely tumblr artist dhurain created! Please support her & her artwork, it's really amazing and I love it so much, ehehe~
Okay~ Bye!