the guilt we share
The nights they spend together are familiar, her skin an exotic nut-brown, her teeth daggers she wields in the dark. A raven of a woman, she is. Chrom and the other Shepherds turn a blind eye to their being in the same camp together, but that's no reason to absent himself from the shame of being with her still. It stings to think that she hardly needs this like he (his body) does, keeping him strung along simply because she can.
"You," she'll say, never like the way she used to address him by name or title. And before he can properly slink off she'll wrap himself around his arm like she used to, fingers tapping his chest, and even though it means nothing (he says) he can't be arsed to fling her off like he would anyone else.
"Off paying the former Exalt another conciliatory visit, were you?" she will pout, the nutty hue of her thighs shining a darker color in the evening glow. "One would almost think you were trying to atone."
"Away, woman." He strides past her, heading for his own unshared tent. "I'm hardly in the mood for your barbs today."
Even so, she follows, inviting herself in and stretching languorously against the pillar of his tent pole. "Why not? It's such a lovely day outside, though ending now. We might as well season it with some vitriol."
"Spare me. Why don't you season Chrom with it? You've been buttering him up lately, I've heard. Trying to replace Robin as his tactician?"
"Oh, that's harsh." Aversa pouts, her crimson eyes prettily afire. "Talking like you've given up all ambition yourself. Pretending to grovel in the dirt like you've renounced even your own pride. Who do you think you're fooling with that air of repentance?"
That hurts, even though it shouldn't. It took a long time for him to properly fall, and he's haunted enough by images of his former height without her. "I've no pretensions of repentance, wench. I know just where I am."
Aversa draws herself up, her brow creasing, lip curling. "So you say, Mud King. Have you seen the way the other few Plegians in this army look at you? They think you're a worm. They wouldn't follow if you tried to reclaim the throne. You know, in case that was on your mind."
"Who said I had any such plans?"
"I'm not the only one who can eavesdrop on conversations with Robin, dear."
His gnashing teeth, his fisted hands—how dare she smirk at them! Gangrel strides up to her and buries his hand in her black ruff. There is often only this one way to shut her up. Grimacing, he pulls her all the way to the camp cot to throw her down on it. Like creeper vines, her hands take hold and twist between his legs, climbing.
This ritual is not even halfway satisfying anymore.
Aversa makes no secret of her pleasure, even as he suspects most of the time she's faking those little artificial moans. It's over in a blaze. She always laughs at the way he clamps his arms around her so tightly in the last moments before he can't hold back anymore. "Why, you'd almost think we were lovers."
The world throbs at the edges in a white moment where sin matters not, the single moment that justifies her company.
Afterwards, they share what little space remains on the cot without touching.
"What would Emmeryn say if she saw you doing this with me?" Aversa murmurs, curling her long legs in and away from his.
"Pah. As if I care. You think Chrom would think any better of you for doing it?"
"I suppose not," she hums. "Those damned siblings. Look at them pulling our strings instead of the other way around. And they don't even know what they're doing."
"Why, my dear, you just used the word our."
Her nails scrape across his thigh. He yelps, and shoves her away, almost off the cot.
Once more, he wonders how they came to be in the same place. They never, never talk straight about what happened months ago, the moments before his downfall and the intervening weeks before Chrom found them. Perhaps that's better; neither is keen to. That would be difficult, would require language they are not used to, and their animosity for each other is the only remnant right now of an easier time.
After that she stalks out of his tent with her coat, the lush ends of her hair last to disappear. He catches a glimpse of the camp before the tent flap floats back into place, the Shepherds milling about. As if he doesn't know how she is equally pricked by the glares cast at her, glares that she doesn't have the careless skin of royalty to defend her from.
Gangrel scowls and strips the sheets from his cot, balling them into a pile at his feet. Where she touched, poison lingers. Whatever path he could choose, if any truly remain to him now, he'd be better off without her.
And yet however he would seek to pull himself up from the ravine where he is—it is not easy. The comfort of his old nature is close. (Lovebites lashing into him the memory of his sins, the pleasure of blood, the days when they together spelled the ruin of lesser nations.) Not so easy to let go of his past, after all. He can only hope these trysts are a blight on her too.
a/n: argh i'm still so ridiculously obsessed with fire emblem when will it end