My memory falters after the party. There's pockets, a split second of movement, of colour, of noise and light and feeling, but then only flashes. I don't know the route I followed or the doors I passed, the stairwells I climbed or the people I avoided-of that early morning I can remember only cobwebs and dust, clinging to dark stone, and the soft firelight from a torch that spluttered out into nothing.
I slept for a long time, dreamless and fretful.
I woke up on the roof.
It was the rain that hit me first, the feeling of it smashing against my skin, running down my cheeks, pooling under my head; next was the wind, fierce as a hurricane, slicing through my clothes and pulling at my bones; worst was the darkness, so thick I could hardly breathe; but last, last was the sensation that I was falling, the weightlessness so sudden I didn't even have time to scream.
The drop was only a few feet, maybe two, maybe three, but crashing into the stone again knocked the life right out of me. I was paralyzed for a long time, powerless as the storm raged all around me, forced to take in the bitterness of the cold, the brutal sting of the rain, until eventually I coaxed energy back into my limbs, warmth back into my fingers, and colour back into my eyes. I found, despite my pain, that I felt...alive.
It was an incredible feeling, brutal and honest and raw, and suddenly I was struck by a demand for more, a need for more. Sitting up took effort, but I liked the feeling of my bruises moving over my muscles, the lightness that struck me between the eyes, the sparks that rampaged just behind my forehead. When I got to my feet I fell in love with the way the wind stole my balance, the way the rain made me feel like I was drowning. It was the taste of the risk, the pain, the danger, the racing of adrenaline in my blood, the wild thrum of my heart against my ribs. It was the awareness of being alive, of holding on, and I loved it.
/
I waited out the storm with a kind of endless patience, counting the minutes, the hours, the seconds, counting them all. Time became like raindrops in my hands, collecting just within my grasp, clinging close and fast; when I broke concentration they escaped all at once, their trails running thick and wet across my skin. These sensations, so quiet and gentle, became familiar, almost rhythmic, and as it grew warmer, as the storm became gentle, the wind like a blanket, the sun like the coming of spring, I found I had no need for it, my clothing damp but not uncomfortable, my breath misting only enough to barely be seen. Perhaps I could have stayed-I wanted to, even if only for a little bit longer-but I staggered to my feet without a word.
The roof of Jaegar Keep was sloped in odd places, the rain draining away in tiny rivers, but following them to the edge only made me want to jump, to fling myself over the parapet and dive into the misty whiteness below; I'm not sure where that feeling came from, and as much as the danger thrilled me, it terrified me just as much. I walked back along the stones, watching for dips that hid deeper puddles then my shoes could handle, and eventually I found a strip of cloth, caught between two jagged corners of rough rock. It was probably from my pants, or my jacket, I couldn't really be sure, but at least I had a direction, maybe an origin point, and I could work with that.
There was a ledge not far from there, a small protrusion in the wall that kept the rain from spilling out over the roof and down the side of the Keep. The drop was dizzying, but I relished in the moment I felt myself swinging downwards, hanging only by my fingers as I felt around for a foothold. Even then, every step restored the high, the rush of air against my flailing limbs, the press of gravity tight around my ankles; I had to climb for a long time, but I loved every second of it, every time my boots lost their grip, every time my fingers screamed from the pull of my weight. I pretended I was blind just for the excuse to close my eyes, to force myself to feel my way along the walls, to search blindly for a salvation I wouldn't know until I had seized it. I traced myself back over the shadow of former lives, when I was younger, when I was older, when I was older even then that, until finally I was back where I had been the night before, crouching in a window box and tapping with trembling hands against the cracked and dusty glass.
I almost didn't want anyone to find me, but by the third try a servant pried open the hinges and threw open the pane, their surprise muffled by the understanding that flashed behind their eyes. "Be careful," they had whispered, helping me into the otherwise empty room. I nodded in response, but could manage no more then that.
The corridors were quiet and still, the heaviness in the air from the rain seeping in through cracks in the stone. I enjoyed the smell, the feeling of the dampness against my cheeks, and as I dragged my fingers against the wall, watched the skin rub off from the friction, the moistness pool against my hand, I found I enjoyed that too. It was like the world was saturated, clouded with an intensity no one could place; it cushioned me from my pain, from the building pool of dread I could feel growing low in my abdomen, angry now, furious like a neglected bird of prey. The pain mounted steadily, twisting and turning until I could hardly walk, until even the adrenaline rush of walking past people I knew, people with names I could remember and faces I could trace from memory, did nothing for me. A few of them reached out, smells hot and spicy and mild and vague, running fast against me, but I pushed past them all. Did I apologize? Did they expect me to? Should I know?
It was Eren that stopped me, Eren that made my blood run cold, Eren that made my face colour with life and my back stiffen with hidden resolve. Eren. It had always been Eren.
"Where have you been?" he asked, dragging his hands up my arms, cupping my chin, chasing drops of water down my neck. "You're soaked through."
I met his eyes like I craved the feeling of them boring into mine, like I sought little more in the world then the sensation of guilt clawing at my throat, roaring in the back of my mind. I should have told him the truth, told him I had climbed onto the roof in a drunken stupor, that I had fallen off one of the higher-most parapets and for a split second thought I was dying; I should have told him about the storm, about the lightning so close I could taste it, about the thunder so loud it had made my bones shake. But Eren...Eren deserved better then that. Eren deserved the lie.
"I had been in town," I said, the story coming so easily to me, so easily. "I got caught in the rain."
Eren shook his head skeptically. "The storm has been raging for hours."
"I was hoping to wait it out," I continued, my heart beginning to race with how close Eren had become, how hot his breath was against my collarbone. "But I...I didn't think I could wait forever. It's just water."
I tried to laugh. I remember that because of the way the sound rattled around in my chest, the rumble that slipped down my spine into the soles of my shoes, the shaky cough that scaled quick and soundless up and down the sides of my throat. My pain was so obvious, so close to Eren it was all but pushing against him, screaming at his feet, reaching for his shoulders. Could he see it? Could he see the way I was suffering?
"You're going to catch a cold," he said, slipping out of his jacket, the one with the ribbons and sashes and green embroidery. "Here. Take off your shirt."
I refused it, once, twice, then again. "My room is only a few floors below us," I insisted, gesturing to the floor like I could pick out the shadow my room cast against the stones. "I'll make it. And besides, you need that. I'm sure you have somewhere important to be."
Eren was frowning now, and when he asked again, there was a urgency in his eyes, an honest, unrestrained concern, almost as if he could imagine this supposed illness claiming me even now, so sudden and strong I would collapse into his arms like a corpse before he could so much as cry out. Now my refusal hesitated, torn by his showmanship, distracted by the way this emotion played on his face, tugged at his jaw. He saw that, recognized it, and pushed his jacket forward again, more insistent this time. "For me," he whispered.
I hated the way he said that, the plea he felt he needed to add, the beg, the wish. I wanted to tell him the truth, that I liked the discomfort, the irritating scratch of wet clothing against my skin, the smell of must and dirt and dust and ash, the taste of bile and alcohol and salt and soil. But again, Eren deserved better. And maybe...maybe I did, too.
My sigh brightened his face, my hands reaching without reluctance for waterlogged buttons all but imprinted against my chest. "Alright, alright," I conceded, "give it here."
But as I reached the bottom button, felt the fabric begin to slip from my shoulders, I freaked. There was no way to hide that reaction, no word or phrase or excuse that I could have used to cover it up, but it didn't matter-suddenly I was strangled by fear, fire and ice burning through my veins with so much violence I saw red.
Eren, of course, saw none of this. In his eyes I just flushed, bright and obvious, and turned away out of shyness, my choked sound one of embarrassment and sheepishness. He was laughing, filling the corridor with the brilliance of the sound, and without needing to speak just draped the silky material of his jacket over my head and rubbed at what of my hair he could still reach, kissing my cheek fleetingly before walking away without so much as a backwards glance.
The moment I was alone, the moment I was sure he was gone, gone so far that if he appeared again, stuck his head out from around the corner, opened a door, peered through a window, he would be too late to see. My knees buckled and I clutched the sides of my shirt to my chest, pulling them so taunt I could hear the seams tearing, the clothing giving out under my horror.
In a single split second, a blink, a heartbeat, I had almost betrayed myself. But in that same split second, fraction of a breath, sliver of a moment, I had been saved. I looked at my hands, at the faint traces of blood that filled my palms, at the sweat that lined my knuckles; they were hands, they were skin, that was blood, that was sweat, but underneath I was death.
/
The library was my haven, my hideaway, the place I ran to when I lonely and empty and scared and haunted. I loved so much about it, the smell of old paper, the sound of turning pages crinkled with age, the terrible black stains I could get on my fingertips and never completely wash out, but today, on that day, I remembered none of that. I went to the library because I felt safe there, hidden and protected by the towering stacks and heavy books and tainted sunlight that filtered in through ever-frosted windows. I went to the library because I thought no one would find me there, and for a few hours, I was right.
The silence lied to me, lied to me like I lied to Eren, like I lied to the world, like I lied to myself. The stillness lied to me too, but of different things, things the danced with light and passion and heartbreak and trauma. I chased them for a while, running through the isles, turning back to walk, falling on the floor, tracing in the dust. I was wanton, a muddle of anger and pain and distaste and chaos. I was...I was confused.
My way of thinking, if you could call it that, had always been systematic, a map that showed the rivers running towards the ocean, a constellation with points set forever immobile in the sky. But there were some days, like this, every few weeks, where I could hold nothing in my head but a few fleeting images, of black lines on a sandy piece of parchment, of two wings crossing at the center of a square, of fire that burned blue and eyes so green I could almost count the stars. It made me want to run, to fling myself across a canyon that went on forever, to taste the rush as it hit my throat, to scream and yell until I had nothing left in my lungs but the smell of sand and sweat. I wanted that, maybe more than anything, but I was here, and I was trapped, and that was all.
I needed time to slow, to cradle me gently in a grasp that was both tender and loving; I needed time to stroke my hair, play with my nose, fiddle with my hands. I just needed to breathe, even if only for an instant.
Drawing helped, for a while. There was a rhythm to the movement of the pencil, the scrap of the charcoal against the paper; there was a magic to the shapes, a moment I almost couldn't predict, a freedom little else in the world inspired. I pulled out any book with a title that caught my eye, books of mythology and architecture and horses and oceans. I drew until my sketchbook bled my imagination dry, until my eyes were sore and my tongue tasted like wood. I drew until I could hardly think anymore, until my hand moved all on its own, until I completely and utterly lost myself in something that had never, and would never, hurt me. I drew myself drunk.
Then there was a shadow, sudden and all at once. My light was gone, swallowed by a horrible blackness that came with no explanation, no warning. Then there was a voice.
"Having fun?" it asked.
I looked up, as slowly as I could manage, and tried to look unsurprising. "Jean?"
The prince of Trost was smiling, eager and easy, playful and flirtatious. He raised an eyebrow, curiosity pulling at his features, a million words trapped behind his lips but none seeming to find the courage to break loose. Watching this, staring so openly there was no excuse, I was suddenly overwhelmed by a need to kiss him, to steal those letters from his tongue and learn the ridges of every one. I could, couldn't I? Would he stop me?
I dropped my gaze, startled from my thoughts as my pencil clattered onto the floor. I reached for it immediately, but as it fit against my hand, as the wood scraped against my skin, I paused. I needed something to say. Something. Anything.
"Are you alright?" Jean asked, moving now to face me. There was an armchair in his way, filled mostly by the books I had been copying from, but he didn't try and push them away. He was waiting, waiting for me to invite him, waiting for me to tell him it was okay.
But it wasn't, it couldn't be. He shouldn't be here.
"I'm fine," I said, rolling my pencil back between the pages of my sketchbook. "Just a little tired, I guess. Long night."
My shrug must have convinced him, because he nodded in understanding. "Long night for all of us," he agreed, shoving his hands into his pockets and angling himself so he could lean against the wall, lean just enough to catch the failing sunlight against his chest and tangle it along the outline of his muscles through his shirt.
"You're beautiful," I murmured, the admission slipping right past me before I could stop it.
Jean was a quiet for a moment, then blushed from his forehead to his neck. He edged away from the window, as if it had tricked me somehow, that I had mistaken him just then for someone else. "Oh, uh, yeah, thanks."
His bashfulness made me smile, my amusement so genuine I could almost ignore the madness that had seized me a moment before. Where had that come from?
Jean was struggling with something else now, his ability to language just blah. It took a few moments, but eventually he steeled his nerve again. "You can't say things like that to me," he said, his confidence making his body relax, his voice strengthen. "The mountain should never compliment the painter."
The quote surprised me, even more so then the compliment, but that faded quickly enough; soon it was my turn to blush, just a little, along the tops of my cheeks. "You're terrible," I snapped, gathering my things together, my eyes down, my face hidden behind my hair. "You should save your best lines for Eren."
As I was getting up, the stack of books unsteady in my hands, Jean reached out and urged me to wait. His touch was oddly tender, not restrictive in any sense, and after a moment I caved in to the warmth of his fingers, the embrace of his waiting presence.
"Yes?" I asked, letting him take books from my pile, place them carefully on the floor.
"Will you stay awhile?" He asked, his voice soft now, light and airy. "Can I sit with you?"
I should have refused, just as I had refused the night before-but like the night before, I couldn't, not forever. It was different now, though, the tension between us less cautious, more curious. Was he searching for the chemistry he had felt when we danced together? And what did that say about me, as I let him?
I settled back into my chair, bringing my knees up to my chest. Jean sat close by in the other chair, leafing through the topmost book in the stack. "Can you draw any of these?" He asked, pointing to an illustration of a griffin. "Have you?"
Talking about art was easy; it was the implication hidden behind it, the teasing, the games, that made it hard. Jean was watching everything about me, the way I moved my hands, the way my feet moved against the upholstery. In turn, almost without meaning to, I found myself watching him, the way his weight shifted from leg to leg, the way his mouth moved as he talked. We were testing each other, somehow, wondering without words about whether or not the previous night had been a fluke, a wild chance, maybe even a miracle. Maybe it had been all of those things.
"Let me draw something for you," I finally allowed, leaning back in my chair, crossing my legs as they dropped onto the ground. "Pick any of the books, any picture, and I'll draw it for you."
The offer threw him, I think, but he liked the challenge. As he searched, book after book, I finally got a chance to catch my breath, to admit that whatever there had been between us, whatever it had been, was over. Things were different now, better, safer, and I was okay with that.
"I think I know what I want," Jean finally said, closing the book soundlessly in his hands. There was a brief hesitation, and I half-expected him to tell me to make something up-instead, he said, "draw you."
The request was unexpected, so much so I could only stare open-mouthed at him for a long, long moment. "I...can't," I managed at last, struggling to come up with a reason why, why the idea made my heart race, why the mere thought made my head feel light. "I can't...imagine watching me stand in front of a mirror for an hour would be very fun."
That last piece had come out in a rush, but I was ultimately satisfied with the excuse. Jean, however, was not about to take that as an answer.
"You don't need a mirror," he said, leaning forward to rest his chin on his fist. "I'll be the mirror. Just draw."
There was no commanding edge to his voice, no finality, but still I sensed the impossibility I knew I would confront if I tried to refuse. Just like how I had known I would dance with him, I knew I would do this for him; there just wasn't anything else I could have wanted to do.
I started slow, with the shape of my head. Jean was methodical, moving from my brow to my chin, the start of my hairline to the last sliver of every strand. My ears were small, he said, but proportional; my eyes were round and wide, my nose sloped this way, my forehead angled that way. He used technical terms, blunt and to the point, his concentration leading to an exactness I appreciated. There was nothing suggestive in this, just an artist and his commissioner, just an artist and his subject. It was almost too easy.
Jean reached my lips last, gave me a shape, a line, an edge, a crease. He was more careful here then anywhere else, his description catching every minute detail, no matter how small.
It hadn't been his words. It hadn't been the way he made me smile, even though, as I drew, I couldn't manage anything more than neutrality. It hadn't even been the moment he reached out, his finger a ghost against my lips, the movement innocent but fierce as lighting. It had been his eyes, honing in, closer and closer, his eyes as they watched my lips move with the beginnings of speech I had all at once forgotten. It had been his lips, moving now, following after his hand, reaching, reaching.
I don't remember exactly what happened next, only a flash. I was on my feet, my papers scattered all along the floor, my body tense with shock. I remember running, remember flinching at the sound of his voice, at the call of my name. But more then anything, anything at all, I remember not stopping, even once, to look back.