Rory sighed lightly, wrapping her arms around herself to ward off the light chill that blew through the autumn air. The smell of chopped wood and burning fires danced over her as she walked through the village surrounding the castle with Marty. He was going to check up again on the pig for Tristan's birthday and had asked if she'd like to come along, seeing as the men were conditioning today and Rory, hadn't wanted to be stuck inside the castle so had accepted. But had forgotten to bring a cloak or shawl.
Marty, seeing her shiver, pulled his own coat off and draped it over her shoulders. She smiled up at him in thanks before glancing back down and continuing on in silence.
"Leigh are you alright?"
She glanced up at him, distracted, "Hmm?"
Concern flickered across his face, "I asked if you were alright."
"Oh." her forehead scrunched and she looked back to the ground, walking slowly, "I guess so."
"You guess so?" he asked, unbelieving.
"Yes." she said quietly, biting her bottom lip and pulling his jacket tighter. It shouldn't have surprised her that Marty noticed when something was wrong with her. He noticed everything. Even when she didn't want him to. Even when no one else did.
"Leigh." he put a hand lightly on her shoulder, bringing her to a stop, "What's wrong? You've been like this for a week."
"Like what?" she asked, ignoring the wind in her face to glance up at him.
He sighed, shaking his head, "Upset. Quiet. You've been withdrawn ever since Tristan came back from Rivenlear. I thought you'd be ecstatic when he returned but instead you're worse than when he was gone."
She didn't answer and they stood in silence. It was true, she had been withdrawn since Tristan had returned. Because she'd barely spoken to him. As soon as he'd returned he'd held her, ran his fingers through her hair, stared at her in a way that made her chest burn. And then he'd spoken to his mother. And shaken off her hand. And refused to look at her. He still wouldn't look at her unless he didn't think she was watching, and in those moments he'd gaze at her, his expression at times unreadable and at others burning, pained. She hadn't again tried to speak to him because she didn't think she could handle it if he pushed her away again. She hadn't realized how much of a safety he'd been for her. How much of a warmth. Even when he was gone for a week she hadn't been this desolate, because the thought of him had kept her warm. Had kept her smiling. Now, now he was here. But it was like there was a stone wall between them. Something she had no way of ascending. It was desolation because he was here with her, but he might as well have been on the other side of the world. And it hurt.
Rory blinked as a sharp gust of wind mercifully allowed her to break her gaze away from his, "I don't know. I haven't really talked to him." she started walking again.
"Leigh–"
He reached for her and she turned sharply, "I don't know, Marty. I think maybe I'm just homesick." it was a lie. A flat out lie. She did miss her family terribly. She did miss her home. But she wasn't attached to it the way so many people became attached to their homes. In reality it was simply her foster home. In reality this was her home. She told Marty she was homesick, but really, in a way, she felt as if she'd come home.
He stared at her for a moment, his expression unreadable. "You haven't talked to him at all?"
She shook her head, "Except for the day he came back, no."
"That's..." he trailed off, stunned. "That's not what I expected."
She laughed humorlessly, "No. It's not what I expected either."
*
Rory went with Marty as he spoke to the butcher and checked the hog's hooves and mouth and looked it over for lesions. He walked her back to the castle, towards the kitchen. "So you haven't talked to him at all?" he asked, holding the servant's door on the east side of the castle open for her.
She sighed, biting the insides of her cheeks to push back the throbbing that rose in her chest as she stepped through the doorway, "No, Marty, I haven't."
He shook his head, "It's the strangest thing. You know, I heard Logan and Max Medina talking about you the other day."
"Oh?" she asked, uninterested. Lately talking about Tristan had put her in a bad mood.
"Yes. They were talking about how much Tristan has changed." he said, "It sounded like they attributed it to you."
She shrugged heavily, pulling off his coat in the process, "I don't see how they could right now considering I haven't spoken to him." she held the heavy jacket out to him, "Thank you."
He nodded, "You're welcome. I'm serious, though. I hard them talking about you. And also, yesterday I was talking to Nicholas, you know he went to Rivenlear with the king?" Rory nodded to show that she did know. "Well, he told me that they left Rivenlear early."
Rory's head whipped around, "What?"
Marty nodded, "I know, it's surprising, isn't it? I was just saying, because I know you told me that Tristan said they got done early, but they didn't. Nicholas was saying that he was surprised they left. It's a two day journey, so they were only at the Rivenlear court for three. He said they probably could have stayed for two for three more days to smooth things over better, but the king wanted to leave."
She shook her head, "Tristan said they were done."
Again, he nodded, "Yes, I know. That's why I was surprised." he shrugged lightly, "I don't know, Leigh. Nicholas said the king was anxious to get back to Hartford. To get back to the castle."
Rory stared at him for a moment before shrugging, brushing it off. It didn't matter anyway.
Marty, as if sensing her unease with the subject, moved on. The new topic wasn't much better, because it was still about Tristan, but it was a slight step up from trying to figure out why he'd come home early, "If it's true that he is so fond of you, then there must be something else to it. I just don't understand–"
"Leigh."
Marty looked up, cut off halfway through his thought. Rory glanced up as well, "Oh, hey Logan." Tristan's cousin hadn't been ignoring her. He'd been perfectly polite. He actually acknowledged her existence.
"Hi." he spoke to her and nodded to Marty in way of greeting, "Tristan wants to speak to you."
She stared at him, unresponsive. "What?"
"He wants to talk to you."
"Now?" she asked.
He nodded, "Yes, now."
"Why?"
Logan shrugged, "Can I steal her from you?" he asked Marty, but didn't wait for an answer before slinging an arm over her shoulders and guiding her away.
"Why does he want to talk to me?"
"Because you're such a joy to debate with."
"Ha. Funny." she dead panned. "Really now, what does he want?"
Logan led her out of the servants' wing, "I don't know. He didn't divulge that information to me. He told me to get you, and that's what I'm doing." he shot her a wicked grin, "I'm sure I don't want to know all the things he says to you. My innocent ears might fall off for corruption."
Rory rolled her eyes, frustrated, "Logan, I highly doubt this is going to be amusing. He hasn't so much as looked at me in a week." her voice was harsh, and she knew she shouldn't take it out on Logan, but she also knew it would be better to snarl at him than at Tristan.
The king's cousin sighed lightly, shaking his head. They walked in silence for a moment, the humor slowly draining between them. Finally Logan spoke, "He always looks at you Leigh." he said quietly.
"No he doesn't." she protested, "He hasn't spoken to me or acknowledged me since the day he got back from Rivenlear. And you know, right now I'm not so sure I even want to see him."
Logan glanced down at her, amused, but didn't reply as he continued shepherding her down the hall and into the main part of the castle, "Well right now he wants to talk to you. Don't worry, I'm sure it's about the men."
"That doesn't make a difference." she huffed, folding her arms, "It still requires speaking to him."
Logan laughed, squeezing her tight against his side for a moment, "Oh Leigh, what did we do for entertainment before you had the audacity to insult the king?"
She ignored him, because she felt more that he was laughing at her than with her, "You're avoiding the subject. What is wrong with him?"
The amusement slowly drained from Logan's face, "He's a king, Leigh. I'm sure there are a great many thing that are bothering him."
She shook her head, "No more than there were a week ago."
He didn't respond, but his forehead scrunched in thought. Finally after a stretch of silence he spoke, "It's complicated, Leigh. It's extremely complicated."
"I think I can keep up." she muttered darkly, knowing that Logan wasn't going to tell her anything.
"Here." he said, leading her up the grand staircase and down the hall towards Tristan's study, "I don't know what to tell you, I was just commanded to deliver, and here you are."
She glared at him through narrowed eyes, "You're useless."
He grinned at her maddeningly, "You're sweet." before knocking on the door and walking away.
"Come in." was muffled through the door.
Rory closed her eyes momentarily, took a steadying breath, and pushed the door open. Tristan was sitting at his desk, looking down at a scroll that stretched across the width of it. She took a second to look him over: his golden, unruly hair, his solid shoulders and chest, the strong, tanned line of his jaw. She bit her lip, leaning against the doorframe, "You wanted to see me?"
He nodded, motioning towards the chair before his desk without looking up. Rory stepped into the room and shut the door quietly behind her, walking slowly to the empty seat. She felt it then. The anger. The hurt. The aching in her chest that she'd been trying to push away. She watched Tristan ignore her and it throbbed. He only took a moment more to look over the paper before him before sitting up and turning to her.
They sat in silence.
Tristan stared at her, his expression empty. And the pain in her chest sharpened.
"So." he said finally, "How are the men?"
Rory opened her mouth, but no words came, and so she closed it. She shook her head lightly, closing her eyes, "What?"
"How are the men doing?" he repeated, regarding her emptily and the pain in her chest grew, caving in until she felt as though there were a hole in her chest. She didn't know if it was where her heart was, but it was there, clogging her throat and making her ribs ache. "How is their training coming along?"
"You–" she broke off, shaking her head, "You want to know how the training is going?"
"Yes."
She exhaled sharply, pressing her lips together as the cavity in her chest vibrated, making her whole body weak. "Honestly Tristan, I can't keep up with you."
"What are you talking about?" he asked, leaning back in his chair.
"It's like you can't make up your mind. One week you hate me, the next you can't stay away from me, then you can't stand the sight of me and the next you'd be happy if I was trampled by a horse. You're absolutely impossible. You can't seem to make up your mind on what to think about me and it's dizzying." She looked up to see his reaction, but he didn't have one. His face was carefully blank. Rory sighed, "I'd just like to know what's going on, if that's all right with you, Your Highness." she added the last bit to spite him, if that were possible.
He ignored her petulant stab and studied her leisurely, blinking slowly. When he answered his voice was even and void of inflection, "Nothing is going on. I'm fine. I don't hate you. Obviously I can't stay away from you; I mean honestly, I'm having difficulty stopping myself from lunging over the desk and tearing your clothes off this instant–"
Rory flushed, "I didn't–"
Tristan ignored her interruption and continued as if she hadn't spoken, "Even if I despised your company, your body and face are enough to make any man happy at the sight of you, or at least the sight of them would give him the strength to stand anything you had to say. And I would probably be very put out if you were killed by a horse." his acidic sarcasm matched hers and the hole in her chest swelled.
She stared at him for a moment, her mouth opened in disbelief. "What...." Rory trailed off, unable to form her thoughts into words. She heard a rushing in her ears and wondered if it was linked to the heaviness in her limbs. Maybe she'd gone too far in her last complaint. But it was true. He was so hot and cold. More so than anyone she'd ever met. She sat in silence, unable to speak for several moments as the tension in the room diffused. He saw her face, she knew he saw the pain, but there was nothing she could do. She bit her lip, looking away from him, "I don't understand." she whispered finally, "What did I do?"
At that Tristan's empty face twisted, his forehead scrunching and his eyes narrowing slightly, "What?" he sounded genuinely confused.
Rory sighed, a stinging heat rising through her chest and into her throat as she spoke, "You want to know about the men?" she asked distractedly, "You never ask me about the men unless you're mad. Unless you don't want to talk to me."
He shook his head, "What makes you think I don't want to talk to you? I called you in here, didn't I?"
She nodded, "Yes, and I'm still trying to figure out why." his eyes narrowed again as he watched her, trying to figure her out. But his expression was dangerously blank again. "You want to know about the men?" she repeated weakly, unable to say what she felt, "You want to know about the men, but you haven't looked at me in a week."
"I'm looking at you now."
Her face snapped up and her gaze locked onto his. "No you aren't." she said quietly. "You're looking in my direction, but you're not seeing me. You aren't seeing anything." she whispered. Tristan's eyes widened slightly, caught off guard, but he said nothing. Just stared at her as the emptiness in his eyes slowly softened. "I've seen you look at me before Tristan. I've felt you look through me and into me and I've drowned in your eyes before." she shook her head lightly, pressing her lips together, "I've felt you look at me before. And this, this thing you're doing now? This isn't looking at me. You're looking around me. You're looking at my face. You're not looking at me. You haven't really looked at me since the morning after you got back from Rivenlear." She stood abruptly, turning from him. "I don't know what happened." she said quietly, walking towards the window, "I don't know what I did."
She heard his tired sigh, "Leigh, you didn't do anything."
"I must have done something." she said without turning around, "I don't know what to think, Tristan, I look into your face and all I see is hate and anger, and I honestly just have no idea what I did to bring it on you. I don't know what I did, but this look, this way you're staring at me. The way you've been avoiding me. I can't think of anything but that I've done something to make you hate me. And I don't want that. I don't want you to hate me." her voice broke and she felt the pain in her chest and she knew it was true. She didn't want him to hate her. She hadn't realized how much he meant to her. It was like every time this happened, every time he got mad at her, it cut her deeper and deeper. It was like every time he was mad it got more painful and then every time he smiled at her and touched her she came to need him more. But now he wasn't there.
"I don't hate you." he said quietly.
"You must." she protested, "Nothing else could account for the emptiness when you look at me. Why else would you be avoiding me? I've barely seen you in a week, Tristan. I've barely seen you and it's because you don't want to see me and I just want to know what I did that was so wrong. I want to know what I did." She was shocked at herself. Shocked at her fragility. She'd been through more than most people her age had nightmares about. She was stronger, physically as well as mentally than almost anyone else she knew. She could count on one hand the amount of times she remembered crying in all her life. She rarely got attached to anyone and it was even less frequent that she felt the need for someone. But she felt it with him. She was shocked at her own weakness. At the pain he was capable of causing her. And she hated it.
"Leigh." he said softly, next to her ear, and she jumped, surprised by his closeness. "Leigh." he said again, his voice no longer empty, "you didn't do anything wrong."
Even at his close proximity, even as his scent and his warmth invaded her senses, she wouldn't look at him. Though her body screamed at her, she refused to turn, "Then why do you hate me now?" she whispered; if she spoke any louder she was sure she would break.
She felt him shake his head, "I don't hate you, Leigh. And you didn't do anything. Trust me, I highly doubt there is anything you could do that would make me hate you. I doubt there's even anything you could say or do that would truly make me angry." She snorted humorlessly, but said nothing. If he only knew the secrets she held in her mind. If he only knew the secrets branded into her body, on her right hip, to be precise. Tristan's voice was no longer empty. It was full, gentle. It was pained. It was as if he were trying to tell her something, trying to communicate something through his words without saying it. "My avoidance of you is not your fault." he said quietly, closer now, so close. She felt his breath in her ear and it warmed her and pained her and thrilled her and destroyed her all at the same time. She shook her head, opening her mouth, but the words were too thick. Tristan, as if knowing what she was trying to say, took her face in his hands and forced him to face her. She allowed him to raise her chin, but cast her eyes down, unable to meet his eyes that were clearer than the sky and deeper than the sea. "Leigh." he pressed, skimming his thumb gently over her cheek, coaxing her gaze upward.
She'd been turned around. Been facing the window when he broke. She hadn't been watching him as she ranted on about her hurt and her guilt and her pain. She didn't have to speak the words for him to know. She didn't have to say is explicitly for him to feel her isolation and confusion. She'd been turned around, not facing him and so she hadn't seen it when he broke. When his face twisted and his calm demeanor crumbled. She'd missed the moment when his wall fell and he was flooded with her. With her scent and her presence and her feelings and her life. She hadn't seen his unfeeling face and empty gaze crack away as she tore at his soul. She heard it in his voice, he knew, heard his own pain. His own lack of control. His own softness that no one before her had touched. And he didn't know why. Didn't know why she'd captivated him. Didn't know why, from the moment he'd first laid eyes on her, he hadn't had the will or the power or the option of looking away. Even from the beginning he hadn't been able to part from her. He'd meant, after only a few weeks, to send her away. And now she'd been here for months, and it was worse than before. It didn't matter how she insulted him. It didn't matter what his mother said. It didn't matter how he tried, how valiant of an effort he put forth to push her away, to lock her out, no matter what he did she unknowingly burrowed her way back in. Back into his body. Into his mind. Into his soul. And she didn't even know it.
She wouldn't look at him. She hadn't seen him break. Hadn't seen him lose the battle to push her away. She hadn't seen it, and still she refused to look at him. "Leigh." he said again, and this time her eyes swept up towards his. His pulse jumped as her swimming irises locked with his, "I don't avoid you because I hate you. I don't avoid you because I want to, or because I don't like your company. I don't avoid you because I don't want to be around you." he shook his head lightly, caught between rapture and self-loathing at the look in her eyes, "It's the opposite, actually. I've been avoiding you because, more than anything, my body pushes me toward you. I avoid you because I have the insatiable need to be around you. Because I crave your presence. And that is worse than hating you. That, more than anything else, is dangerous."
She shook her head lightly and suddenly his lips were much closer to hers than she'd noticed before. She didn't know what to think or how to react. It wasn't what she'd expected. Wasn't at all what she expected. But it was comforting, because if he was speaking in truth, then she wasn't alone. If he was being honest, and she thought he was, then it didn't matter anymore. Her confusion and her hurt and her uncertainty didn't matter, because he felt it too. And that knowledge, that comfort, made the burden so much lighter. It was the strangest feeling in the world, to not be alone. To know, for the first time, that there was someone else who felt the exact same thing as her. She didn't understand, though. She didn't see how it was dangerous, this thing she felt every time he touched her. She couldn't imagine that it was anything but holy and good, but even if he was right, even if it was dangerous, it didn't matter. "I don't care." she whispered finally.
Tristan let out a shaky breath and Rory felt his hands flex on her face, felt his body, a mere inch away from hers, shudder as if he were chilled. "Don't say that." he whispered, his gaze raking heavily down to her lips. He swallowed painfully. "Don't ever say that."
"But its true." she whispered. His eyes shot back up to hers. And this time he was looking at her.
"Leigh, you don't understand...." he started, but shook his head lightly, pulling away almost painfully. He turned from her, "I can't."
Rory jumped forward, "Tristan, wait." she called, grabbing his wrist and pulling him back. She didn't pull hard, and was shocked when he swung back around as if she'd yanked him with all her might. She didn't even have time to think as, in one fluid motion, he'd turned back to her and swept his arm around her, pulling her hard against his body. She gasped, her hands flying to his chest to steady herself, but she didn't have time to think because as soon as her body was pressed intimately against his, his free hand was cupping her cheek and his lips were on hers. His body and hands were hard against her but his lips were soft. He kissed her gently, his hand supporting her head, feeling her, touching her in anyway possible, not holding her in place or forcing her into it. And his mouth was warm. It was warm and it was sure and it was against hers, breathing a heat into her that she'd never felt before, a fire she'd never heard of or expected and it spread from her lips and into her neck and her chest and throughout her entire body.
And then it was snuffed out. Rory blinked in shock as her lips were torn from Tristan's and he held her away, at arm's distance, his eyes shining with self control, "Leigh, no. We shouldn't." he spoke with difficulty, as if trying to convince himself as much as her. His fingers flexed on her skin, torn between gripping her closer and letting to altogether.
She stared up at him, breathing deeply. She didn't seem to have comprehended his words. She didn't seem to have even heard them. Her skin reverberated. Her body sang. And, as if her mind and body were completely disconnected, which seemed to happen quiet often with him, she took a step forward. Tristan opened his mouth as if to speak, but didn't have the ability, and stared at her in amazement. She rested her hands on his chest again, balancing herself as she leaned up towards him cautiously, curiously, her lips slightly parted as her short breath danced across his lips. He said her name once, quietly, uncertainly, before allowing her to lean up the last inch and connect her lips to his again.
And a heartbeat later his arm was winding back around her waist, pulling her tight against him as the other hand raised back to hold her face against his, gentler this time.
He kissed her slowly, moving his lips gently against hers until she learned how to move her mouth with his, how to form her lips and press them against his and respond to his motions. Until she felt the rhythm of his lips and fell into it with him, until she learned to respond to the heat and return it with her own. And then she felt his teeth as they scraped over her lip. He pulled her bottom lip gently between his teeth and she gasped, which only allowed him to deepen the kiss, pulling her further out into him. And the fire roared. It spread from her chest down into her stomach and the burning she'd felt for the past few weeks in the bottom of her stomach every time he touched her ignited. It caught and took and it burned and it roared and it blazed and it smoldered and she felt herself falling as his lips moved against hers and his hands pushed on her back and his body pressed against hers and they all worked together to incinerate every rational thought from her mind.
He kept his arm around her, supporting her head with his other hand and moving it gently, tilting her face up to fuse his lips against hers at an easier angle. She flexed her fingers against his chest, unsure of what to do with her hands as they fluttered uncertainly over his shoulders and skimmed along his neck. She inhaled deeply, almost a gasp, as he shifted her body in some minuscule way that pushed her more intimately against him and she felt every curve and every dip of his body with her own. She hadn't been aware that it was possible to feel the shape of something with your body rather than your hands, but she could feel it. The solid chest and hard, defined abdomen. She felt his hips pushed against her stomach and the muscles of his legs pushed against hers.
But she felt more than that. She felt the heat. And the passion. And the power that he had. She felt, through his lips and his body, the self-restraint that he'd been exercising so intensely over the past few months. She felt it, as clearly as if he'd said it, the hunger and the desire that he had. That had been building and growing for months. She felt it and it cause the strangest thing to swell up within her. The strangest satisfaction. That he wanted her. That he'd wanted her for months, had craved her so desperately for weeks, perhaps even months, but had held back, had restrained himself. She'd seen it in his eyes, felt it in his touch, the hesitance, the indecisiveness. The guilt. The inability to pull her close or push her away. And it was another feeling altogether, another carnal satisfaction that he'd finally given in. Finally broken. That he hadn't been able to hold back any longer. And that, also communicated through the heat of his lips, was what screamed the loudest to her, even over the roaring fire in the pit of her stomach that made her body tingle and her legs quake. It was the fact that he'd broken. It was that loss of control. The inability to stop himself from grabbing her. It was new to him. That also, she felt confessed through his touch as clearly as if it had been through words. He'd never lost control.
It was on that note that he broke away, as if returning to reality, and pushed her back gently but kept his hands on her shoulders to steady her. Rory stood still, her breath coming out in gasps as she stared up at him, unable to react, unable to clear the fog from her mind. Tristan's face was flushed, his eyes shining. He stared into her eyes and she saw the subtle change in his gaze as he realized that she knew. That she'd read his body like a book. She'd read him in a way no one had. She'd caused reactions in him that no one ever had before.
Tristan was breathing heavily, his eyes clouded as he held her away, "And that," he said hoarsely, "is why it's dangerous."
**
A/N: Okay, okay, so I know I epically fail at updating. And I know this is a relatively short chapter for my pitiful lack of updates, but the next chapter will be up soon. This was the last hump I had to get over before the rest of the story could flow and I'd been avoiding it for forever. SO, the moral of this author's note is that the next chapter will be up soon, scout's honor :)