She knocked softly the first time, adding more force to each attempt. The third was met with continued silence and she hesitated. It was possible he had gone to bed, but something told her that was unlikely. Remembering the cat, she reached out with her magic and found him immediately. A portly and proud tabby answered her and she could hear the vibrations of his pleased purring through the connection.
More of you two-leggers should lay on the floor like this. It makes you much more comfortable to lie on.
Daine blanched and banged on his door. "Numair!"
There. Movement inside—faint, but audible. And a complaint from the tabby that she ignored. The door swung open and Numair blinked at her. The cat was clutched tightly against his chest, his eyes were red, and, somewhere along the way, his hair had come unfastened.
"You're back?"
She wasn't sure he'd meant it as a question but it didn't matter so she nodded. "I had enough time to think."
"And?"
"I think I've been away from you for too long already."
He pulled her through the threshold—the cat saying something deeply insulting to them both before scampering down the hall—and into a crushing hug. Vaguely, she heard the door close behind them, but all she could focus on was how her feet had left the ground because of how tightly he held her, and how she'd forgotten how well her arms fit when they were wrapped around his neck, and how she never wanted him to lift his face from her shoulder again.
And then she cried. Cried because he'd hurt her—because she'd hurt him. Cried because she chose to punish them both instead of doing just this months ago. She hadn't wanted him to see her hurt, or let herself be vulnerable with him again. But that was what had been needed all along. What needed to happen. It didn't fix everything but, gods, it was a start.
She didn't stop crying when he asked if she was alright—his own voice raw and breaking—or when his knees became weak and he staggered them to the floor, or when he pulled her to lay half-on-top of him and curled his body around her own to keep them close. When she did stop, she didn't know how long it had been but she did know that he was still there and that he was stroking her hair. His breathing came in shudders but was regular.
"Thank you for coming back." He said when she'd managed not to sob for several moments in a row.
"I said I would."
"I know. But thank you for coming back so soon."
She didn't know what to say. Dropping her gaze, she saw the mess she'd made of his shirt and grimaced. "Do you have a handkerchief?"
He laughed, softly. "That was a lost cause a while back."
She felt him tense, and a blanket that she recognized as belonging on his settee settled over them in a soft haze of his gift. "This is your fav—" he was already wiping his face, so she claimed herself a corner to blow her nose. When they were dry, if not clean, he chucked the blanket to the side.
"What are you thinking?" She asked. It was one thing to be sorry—to regret—but there was more to repairing a relationship than that. Where did they go from here?
He sighed and blinked hard, "my eyes hurt."
She started to rise to get a better look at him, but the subtle counterpressure of his arm around hers urged her not to move too far away so she twisted instead. He mirrored her so they lay facing one another, and he rested his hand on her arm—careful that the circles he was tracing with his thumb fell below her wound.
"Your eyes?"
He nodded, "I'm not sure I've ever cried like that. I didn't know it could make my eyes hurt." His gaze dropped from hers. "I'm sorry you had to see—"
"Don't." Her hand found his face, lifting his chin so that he had to look at her again. "Don't do that. Whatever you're feeling, I want you to be able to share it with me. You needn't be ashamed of being vulnerable. Not with me."
He cupped his hand over hers. "I'd ask the same of you." He swallowed hard. "I had thought—well, it wasn't so long ago that I believed you to be that comfortable with me."
"I was."
"Until you weren't." He didn't try to hide his hurt.
"I just—" she sighed and rolled over on her back. "I don't know why I'm having such a hard time finding the words for this. I've never found it hard to talk to you."
"We've worked ourselves into quite the predicament."
"I have."
"No," he took her hand, "it's been both of us. We've both made mistakes. Egregious ones."
"You were drunk," she huffed, "and I knew that—saw how far gone you'd been. I should have thought you might not remember, and that's something you couldn't have helped."
There was a pause before he spoke again. "Yes, but what of all the years I let pass without telling you about how I felt? All the—desire for you I let build up. All the times I could have said something, and made it my decision alone—not ours—and then put myself into a position where I left you alone in my admission?" He sighed. "This goes back further than that night."
"How much further?" She hadn't considered that part of it. It didn't make her angrier, though, so that was something. Sad, though, to realize they'd wasted more time than she thought...
He dropped his face into the carpet and she wasn't sure he'd answer. When he did, it seemed to take physical effort. "When the barrier broke. That morning. Do you remember we spoke—right after it happened? That was it: the moment." She was busy grasping the meaning of his words and he evidently felt the need to fill the silence. "I'm not sure how common it is to have such a decisive moment. I'm sure I was in love with you for longer—but realizing it? It honestly had never occurred to me and then—in the span of a second—I just knew."
"No, I get that."
"You do?" He turned to look at her, one eye visible through his hair.
She turned to him again. "It was later, for me, but not much. Remember how I told you I was brought to the Great Gods after killing Ozorne?" He nodded. "Well," she licked her lips. Another thing she'd hidden, because telling him any of it would have meant telling the whole of it, "I had a choice."
"What kind of choice?"
"They said I caused too much trouble. That I had to stay there or come back, but I couldn't travel back and forth."
His brow knitted in confusion—though she was sure his mind was already comprehending the truth of it—and his hand on hers had stopped tracing patterns on her palm. "But to stay in the Divine Realms you'd have to be—"
"A goddess."
He rose, propping himself up on one elbow. "Daine, no..."
Her inhale held the ghost of a shudder. "They gave me a choice and I thought about all the sides of it—my parents, my friends, eternity in the realms, the life I'd made here." She shrugged, "And at the end of it I thought of you and I just knew. Like you said: the space of a second and it was so clear. So obvious. I didn't want any part of forever if it didn't involve you."
He opened his mouth to speak and closed it again before laying back down on the floor.
"Are you going to blame yourself for me not being a goddess?"
"It's hard not to."
"It's daft is what it is. It was my choice, and I stand by it." She pulled his hand to her lips, pressing them to his palm.
"Even now?"
"Yes." She watched him struggle with her confession. When it seemed as though he'd become too lost in his thoughts, she spoke. "Tell me what you're thinking."
"I don't know what to think, honestly. I may need some time to process this. There's already a fair weight to grapple with for one night and this was—unexpected."
"If that's not the truth. Should I go? Let you get some sleep?"
"No—not yet. We won't be able to solve everything in one night, but I'd like to talk more if you're up to it." His voice dropped an octave, softening. "I know you've had a long journey though. You must be exhausted."
"Glass houses." She smiled and felt her heart skip when he returned it.
"That we are."
"What can I do?" She stroked his hair from his face and he turned into her touch. "How can I make this right?"
He laughed, softly, but the sound died on his lips before he spoke. "I was going to ask you the same question."
"I think it's easier to ask than to answer."
"That's probably true." He looked at her for a long moment before sighing. "I think time is the thing, for me. I—I'd like to say that I trust you won't run again—I'm sorry, I really am, but—"
"I understand." She closed her eyes. It wasn't unfair—his lack of faith—but it still hurt. They both knew how hard real trust was to come by, and how few people could be trusted fully. They'd always had it between them, though. Until this.
"Will you look at me?" He asked and she opened her eyes again, nodding. "Thank you. Honesty is the other—for you to be open with me. That's something we both need to work on. Somewhere along the way, we both started keeping parts of ourselves from each other. I know why I did it, and I think I know why you did it because it's the same reason really—but all trying to protect each other through half-truths has done is hurt us both."
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything?" He half-smiled, almost laughing. Almost. But his eyes were sad. "I'd like to say that's an exaggeration, but it's not. I'll have questions for a long time—you will too. We'll have to muddle through. We might have to hurt each other a little more—not too much, I hope—but if we can be honest—" he shrugged "—that gives me hope."
"And for tonight? Is there anything I can do tonight?"
"You can keep touching me." He turned into her hand, which was busy stroking his hair, and kissed her wrist. "And you can start being open. I'd like to know what I can do—what you need me to do, not what you think you deserve or what you think you should ask for—to make things right for you. And," he faltered, looking very young and very scared, "and I need to know what you want. What you would want from us, because I know what I wish for and I can't start down that path if what we want isn't aligned."
She nodded, moving her hand gently along his scalp. "Where would you like me to start?"
"The former, I think. I'm anxious for the latter but I should know the path before I get to think of the destination."
"I don't know if I'll be able to explain it very well." She pulled back to sit up, wrapping her arms around her knees. He followed suit and settled into a tailor's pose across from her. One large hand fluttered towards her, seeking her, but he pulled it back. "It doesn't even make sense to me—not really."
"I don't think there's a right answer, but I'd like to hear whatever you can say—however disorganized."
It took several controlled breaths for her to collect her thoughts. She exhaled hard before beginning. "I know you don't remember it, and you can't—couldn't have—helped that. So everything that followed—the banquet, her," she shook her head, "I don't think there's much that can be done. It happened and it hurt, but no one was at fault. Not really."
He reached out to stop her from picking at her nails and she was suddenly aware of how raw her skin was. Cracked and rough, and how she wished it was smooth for him to touch. He squeezed her hand. "But?"
"But the fact that you don't remember is part of the hurt. That it was the best night of my life, and to you it wasn't even something to remember."
"Oh, Daine." His voice was so soft she could barely hear him.
"And I know—I know—that's not fair."
"I did try. Several spells, an augury, a very foul potion—"
"I know, I know," she hushed him, putting her free hand on his so that she held it between both of hers. "I don't doubt that. And yet—it's grief. That's the best I can explain it—what it feels like when I think of that night and know that it only exists for me. The way I felt when you asked if you could—" her voice broke again and she took a moment to collect herself.
"I did mean it—what you said: that I wanted to be with you. I know I meant it."
"And that's fair wonderful. You have no idea; how I felt walking back to my room, and the next morning when I thought—" another break. Another steadying inhale. And another. And during the third, a thought. "Could you share mine?"
"What?" He wasn't following.
"You don't have your own memories of it—could you share mine?"
He shook his head, "Daine, I can't enter your mind like that."
"I know you told me that once before, but I also know that's not really true. Can and won't are different things."
"Even then, the magic required—" he gaped, looking pale.
"That's a focus, right?" She gestured towards the map in the corner. "For me?"
He dropped his head forward with a sigh. "Yes; I'm sorry—"
"It's okay." She pulled her hands from his and put them on either side of his face. "I wish you'd told me, but it's okay. You could use it, though—to see that night. To be there with me?" When he didn't answer she pressed her hands into his face, forcing him to look at her. "I'm right, aren't I?" He nodded and she leaned in to kiss his forehead. She'd never done that before, but he shuddered and leaned into it even as she pulled away.
She rose and approached the table. The pinpoint of copper light pulsed when she moved and settled again when she came to a stop. She turned back to him. "Are you still feeding it?"
He sighed deeply, shoulders slumping forward and head rolling back. The light faded, and the pendant dropped to hand from its stand. For him to keep focus on a spell for months on end—she felt a pang of guilt.
Upon closer inspection, she could see that it wasn't a solid pendant, but a gold locket. She reached for it—retracting her hand at the last moment because it felt intimate to think of touching it. A second more of hesitation and it was in her hand. It was warm. A mage's gift would heat metal, given enough time. Numair had taught her several ways to check for signs of magic without needing her own, and that had been one of them.
She ran her finger over the surface of the locket, feeling the slight ridges that formed a small border of leaves around the perimeter, and opened it. "I thought this was a focus?"
"It is," his reply was hesitant, "among other things."
She'd seen focuses before. Knew enough of the theory. A strand of hair, a well-worn article of clothing, a favorite quill. Simple. No real need for elaboration to use the connection—no reason for something crafted with such obvious tenderness. No need for it to be a lover's token—certainly no need to wear it, and by the small scratches and the areas where the gold has been rubbed thin this had been word. A lot.
"I took the hair when you were delirious with Unicorn Fever," he said when she handed it to him. She settled across from him, mirroring his tailor's pose. "I thought I was going to lose you. You were so sick, so I took it to—well, the intent wasn't to make a focus. But then I had it. And then I bought the locket, and what's a locket without a portrait?"
"It's nice. Looks quite like me. Better, probably," she laughed a little.
"Not half as beautiful as you." He glanced at her, clearly pleased at the reaction his compliment had produced. "But I'm quite fond of it. Volney did well."
That made sense. They were both fond of the artist's work, and Numair had commissioned a small painting of Kit for her as a Midwinter gift several years prior and later had a second done for himself.
"You're sure of this?" He asked. "Delving into the mind is a tricky matter, and I won't just be a spectator. Yes, I may see things you don't want me to—but I also might feel things you'd rather not share as well. It's—" he drew a breath "—beyond emotional intimacy."
"You wanted openness," she shrugged. In truth, she was fair nervous. But they both needed this.
"Yes, I do, but you must know I'd never ask this of you. If that's why—"
"It's not," she countered, speaking over him. "I want to do this—but can you help me?"
With hands outstretched to her—locket resting in one palm—he nodded. "Of course, magelet." Oh, she'd missed being called that. She hadn't known she had a favorite sound until it came from his mouth. "You'll need to focus on the memory—start where you'd like me to join—and then bring us through it. I'll follow where you lead and that's important. If you think of something else, if your mind wanders, I'll be with you. Do you understand?"
She nodded.
"Good. I think we should begin like we're meditating. When you're ready—when you'd like me to join you—take my hands."
Closing her eyes, she inhaled and began to clear her mind. She was out of practice, and it took some time but, eventually, she was outside her door in the barracks, and her hands were in his, and she was opening the door. He was looking up from where he sat on her bed—"Daine?"—with his head rising from his hands and voice thick with sleep and drink.
He hadn't been inside her mind since he'd created the barrier to separate herself from her magic, and it was a little startling at how familiar it was. There was something comforting about him being there, and she leaned into the feeling. He responded, the hesitation she'd been sensing from him evaporating, and urged her without words to keep going.
He was with her when she fixed his hair, and when he mumbled about his being there being inappropriate. And when he leaned into her neck, she knew that he felt how it had made her shiver. He knew that she'd wanted him to stay there instead of going to his own rooms, but that she'd known better than to succumb to that notion—one correct choice, at least.
And then they were walking. That slow, heady ascent to his rooms where they lingered in each other's company—nurturing something fragile that they both so desperately wanted. Afraid to scare it away; afraid to see it for what it was. Afraid. And wanting. And so in love. The stairs were just as dizzying as they had been that night—her stumble and his counter, his hand on hers, their talk of lovers a poor cover for the fact that they only wanted to talk of the other; think of the other. Touch the other.
Somewhere in the journey, the fundamental nature of time changed. Changes. Is changing. It was then. It is now. It is all. They are all.
When she tells him how she likes men who look like him—but means only him—she can feel his elation and his desire. She doesn't know whose heart is hammering—spilling into the past or the present?—but she isn't sure it's not the same heartbeat, either.
He asks it and she says yes, and then—somehow, blessedly—he asks for more and she says yes again. It's perfect, this fragile moment. Better than flying, better than his lips on her neck, better than anything. It's the best anything's ever been.
And then she's standing at the bottom of the stairs watching him lean over to whisper something to another woman and the other him—the him with her now—recoils.
She gasped. When she opened her eyes, he was already speaking. "I didn't mean t—"
"No," she drew a shuddering breath. "I think you should—" her words died on her lip, the sharpness of the memory in such detail knocking the wind from her. But they were still connected. Some part of his mind was still with her and he understood.
Are you sure? He asked, voice clear in her head. She sensed how carefully he was balancing; still there, but waiting for her permission to delve further once more. She granted it, pulling him to her like she would pull her magic. She didn't linger with these memories—let them come hard and fast with all the hope and disappointment and rage mixed in with each moment in a confused tumble.
Her excitement when she woke; letting herself feel in love with him instead of trying to swallow it. Her need to be desirable to him—the dress, the hair, the stay. Something unfamiliar mixed with her memory: the feel of that soft fabric in his hand and she knew that it was a recollection that didn't belong to her. But it didn't matter because they were tumbling, tumbling—just as they had wound up that staircase in the small hours, now they tumbled downwards. The second ascent to the palace—this one alone, and with anticipation heavy in her stomach—her search for him. The end of her search.
Everything moved faster; there was a sound to it—a hum—that wouldn't leave her be. It made her stomach turn. She could feel his palms sweating where they met hers. Senses mixed with emotion and she shared her anger and her disappointment. Her humiliation.
It was a little strange how rarely his face appeared when all she was thinking of was him, but she couldn't cry—not in the middle of the banquet, not in front of him. She wouldn't fall apart. She had to get away before she could do that. Find somewhere safe. Lick her wounds.
She was on the balcony with George, and then in his study. Plans were made and a wave of anger rippled through the memory so violently she almost lost focus. That wasn't hers, either. But she had plenty more of her own to come. It fueled her efficiency in leaving. It drove her to give Kit's care to Tkaa, instead of him. It was with her when she left, and she already had because they were in the mountains and falling through night after night of cold and alone and missing him and still loving him, gods, how could she feel this much hurt and still love him? Why couldn't she just stop?
She needed to stop the momentum driving them. A shuddering breath helped, and she focused her mind on her flight home—paying attention to the facts of it instead of the emotions. It helped: the little details like the feel of cold mountain air in her feathers grounding her mind. They were almost home.
He'd lagged behind, though, and she could feel his distress spilling into her mind.
Please, he called to her, please don't stop loving me. He reached out to her with an invitation and she didn't hesitate. It was a relief to relinquish control. At least until she understood what he'd felt.
It began with annoyance. Annoyance at having to wake up. Annoyance at the sun for being so bright. Annoyance at himself for drinking so much and his mouth for tasting like stale whiskey. More than a little confusion while he tried to remember the night before, and resignation when it was lost to him. Much more annoyance when he discovered he was being announced as one of two. From there, things fell apart quickly. He could have sworn she'd seen him, and was put out that she'd turned away—but his mind was sluggish with too little sleep, and too much of a hangover. Neither of which ever helped stop him from overthinking.
Dinner was when he knew something was wrong. She looked beautiful and he wanted her to know that, but he couldn't tell her the truth of it because he shouldn't be talking to her of lust. But why wasn't she talking to him? Why did she flinch when he touched her? What was happening? What had happened?
While his face had been rationed in her memories, hers was everywhere in his. A constant. The only time he wasn't watching her was when it would have been rude not to give someone else his attention, and even then—he watched. Then—a moment to speak with her. Surely he could clear up whatever was the matter. He just needed a moment of her time—wait, what happened in her room?
This was a new feeling—one not shared with her experience. Terror. Sheer and cold and clawing. What had happened in her room?
He didn't press. Didn't want to be too aggressive. He'd wait until the next day when she said they would talk. But by morning, she was gone and he was sitting on her bed, clutching her dress and begging Onua to tell him what had happened. And watching a second friendship fracture.
Onua, George, Alanna, Jon—no one was there when he needed them. She wasn't there when he needed her. Shame coiled like a sickness in her stomach and she knew he felt it too—felt him falter; a little of his anger at their friends fading with the acknowledgment that they had been in an impossible situation. But at the time, it was just anger.
It was harder to watch the following months for him than it had been reliving her own. She had been alone, yes, but he had been alone while surrounded by people. Too many nights, days, weeks, in his rooms—alone, ignoring knocks and invitations and summons—watching a pinprick of copper light on a map. Wondering what had happened and thinking the worst. Journeys to the temple district in the dead of night to make offerings to the Goddess. Praying to her—pleading with her—to reveal what he'd done. She pulled at him, slowing them, when he stood on the steps to the Goddesses Great Temple, confused. She was not one of his patrons. He paid respects to the Southern Gods. He urged her forward, trying to guide her away from this past self—rain-soaked and heartbroken—and she blanched when she felt his intentions. His self-loathing. It was different than hers—rooting in different ground—but no less violent.
He had thought to turn himself into the temple. For a crime that never was—never could be—because he would never. She shoved a memory back at him because she needed him to see how wrong he'd been, and that she knew that even if he hadn't. Their brief exchange at the banquet; a reminder that if she'd done one thing it was to deny that very accusation before she left.
And then, finally, someone else was there. Alanna was calling him an idiot because of course he hadn't, and it was so much better than when Onua had called him the same. The Lioness couldn't give answers for what had been, but she knew enough to assure him of what hadn't. It helped. A little. His fear of himself eased. He became lax in his devotion to the gods again. But the heartache stayed and stayed and stayed. Days with too little sleep bled into days with too much. He ventured from his rooms only when absolutely needed, like tonight, until he came back to find her standing in his study as if she'd never left.
He made a choking sound, pulling her against his chest by the hands. She was crying again and the heaving of his chest and shoulders were any gauge, so was he. She was too tired for another bout as indulgent as earlier, so she forced herself to draw air through her nose and push it from her mouth in measured waves.
It worked—for the tears, anyway. The fatigue was beginning to feel permanent. He'd already calmed himself and murmured to her through a face full of curls. "That was—a lot. How about a change of scenery?"
She nearly groaned in displeasure. "I don't think I've enough energy for a walk."
"I meant to the couch."
"Oh." She blinked. "Yes."
She didn't have to walk because he carried her, so that was lovely, and they settled next to each other, sides pressed together, in silence.
"How do you feel?" He broke the silence first, but gently.
"Better."
"Really?" He was more than a little incredulous.
She took a beat to think before speaking again. "Well, worse. Right now, anyway. That was fair horrible. I never want you to feel like that and for me to be the cause—" she shook her head. She was getting off track, and there were sure to be many more conversations between them. "Worse now, but better about feeling like I will feel better." She scrunched her nose. "I don't know if that made any sense."
"It does, actually." There was something like amusement in his voice.
"I don't know how much more I have in me tonight. My head's so full and I don't think I can think straight enough to start sorting it out—"
"Nor can I." He leaned his head against hers and she could hear a weariness in his voice that matched hers. "I did say we couldn't work through it all in a single night. We've both been given plenty to process. I don't want to force this."
"Me neither." It was mostly true. She wasn't known for her patience.
He made a sound, like speech attempted and abandoned, that turned into a hesitant statement. "I would still like to talk about what your hopes are for me. For us."
She twisted to look up at him. "Would you like the list alphabetically, or chronologically?" Her chest tightened at his smile—it was the first truly happy one she'd seen on him in too long. Uncontrolled, and open—she loved it when he blushed.
"Ah, both, and in writing," he sounded a little breathless, "but for tonight—we can take time later to talk about the details—I'd like to know what you want at the highest level. The big picture, if you will, of what you want of me."
She dropped her head, thinking, and felt him tense when she took too long. "No, no," she put a hand on his chest, not sure exactly what she was waylaying in him, but knowing panic when she felt it. "It's just—boiling it all down to one thing is hard. I want to make sure I say it right."
"That's fair." He settled back into the couch.
"What if we do Myles' thing?" She waved her hand, fumbling to elaborate, in response to his blank look. "The negotiation thing—only I know this isn't a negotiation—where two parties write down their say, and then they pass the note. It's supposed to cut the tension, I think." She grimaced, feeling foolish, but he looked amused.
"Alright." He went to his desk and returned with two sheets of parchment and writing utensils. At her questioning look, he grinned and handed her a sheet with a flourish. "If this is a negotiation—"
"—I said I know it's not—"
"—then it's only fair that I participate in kind."
"Oh," she considered it. "I'd like that."
"No peeking—and take your time." He waved his hand at her to focus on her paper and turned his body away from her to shield his own.
It didn't take so long, in the end. There were plenty of things she wanted with him—of him—but only one thing she'd wanted no part of without him. She put pen to paper, scrawling 'Forever' across the sheet with carefully formed letters. She fanned the page and folded it when the ink had dried. Judging by the flailing of Numair's elbow, he was right behind her.
"Same time?" She asked when they turned back to one another, exchanging their parchments. He nodded, swallowing hard.
She took a deep breath, bracing herself, and unfolded his message.
I want to spend our lives together.
Her face hurt with the weight of her smile. When she looked at him, she found him transfixed on his paper. It was still folded between his fingers. His breathing was slow, too slow to be natural. He was trembling.
She opened her mouth to speak but closed it again. He deserved to take his time. Slowly, as if dreading what he may find, he opened it. She watched as his eyes drew across the message once, twice, a third time—on the fourth she saw him mouth the word she'd written before looking up at her, bewildered.
"Forever?" He croaked.
She nodded, "If that's alright with you."
He pulled her forward into another bone-crushing hug, stroking her hair and whispering sweet-sounding things she could only half-hear into her neck. He pulled back when he realized she couldn't breathe—an undignified squeak tipping him off—and cupped her face in his hands. "Yes, that's alright with me." He leaned his forehead against hers.
"Will you kiss me?" She'd barely registered she was thinking it before the words were out and for a second—when he exhaled hard and tilted his head so that his nose brushed hers—she thought he would. Instead, he pulled back to look at her carefully.
He shook his head, just a little. "No," a sigh, "I don't think so."
"Oh." It stung.
"Sweetling, when I kiss you—and I do want to, very badly—I want it to be happy." He ran his thumb along her cheek. "And I'm still sad. I think you are too. And I don't want you to be sad the first time I kiss you."
She pouted but he'd made sense. "I don't think I want that either."
"And," a belabored sigh escaped him, "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I think we should get you back to your own room."
"Is that up for negotiation?" She could hope.
"I'm afraid not," he chuckled before leaning in again to kiss her cheek. When he next spoke his voice was low, "Though I hope that changes very soon."
She shivered, glad he was no longer sharing her thoughts lest she embarrass herself. He stood, and she accepted his hand to help her to her feet. He said he'd walk her when they reached the door but she shook her head.
"You should get to bed."
"But—"
"No, stay here. I'll be fine. If you're worried, use your focus to track me," she wiggled her fingers at him in a way she knew irked him when used as a stand-in for magic. "Will I see you tomorrow?"
"Will you be awake tomorrow?"
"Will I see you when I'm awake?"
"Yes." He pulled her into one final hug. "We'll talk more and—" he inhaled deeply "—we'll go from there. How does that sound?"
She pulled back, meaning to say one thing but speaking another. "I love you, Numair."
He looked stricken, chest rising rapidly, and it seemed as though a response might be beyond him before he managed it. "I love you too, Daine. Forever."
And she left. Before she could kiss him, or ask to stay again—he wanted a little more time. Had good reasons for it, at that. And it was something she could do for him, so she would. Her weariness returned in full force before she reached the barracks. The small hours would wane under another impending dawn soon, and she needed rest. She was already shedding her clothes when she entered, dropping them as she did, and crawled into bed in naught but her smallclothes and badger's claw. The last thing she remembered was making sure Numair's note was set safely on her bedside table.
She woke again, too soon, to hands on her. They were gentle and familiar, and at work lifting her injured arm from beneath her blankets.
"Hush, you're alright." A voice she knew well spoke.
Daine blinked, rolling fully to her back. "Alanna?"
"Ah, I see you've not forgotten me then."
"I'm so—"
"Later. Just rest now. I can see to this well enough whether you're awake or not, so you may as well get some sleep."
"How'd you know I was back?" Her tongue felt heavy, weighing down her words. She blinked again, and Alanna's features came into focus. Someone had lit a candle and a small form leaned against her door, watching them with crossed arms.
"George. Then Numair. Then George and Numair. Made it sound like you'd lose the arm if I didn't get down here."
Daine yawned, "Barely a scratch."
"A little more than that," the Lioness conceded, "but not much. It's alright, though—they were talking when I left. I don't know if I'd call it friendly, but they weren't yelling so..." she trailed off with a shrug.
"S'good." She wondered if Alanna was magicking her back to sleep. If so, it was working. Daine finally got a good look at her other guest. "Onua—"
The last thing she saw was Onua shaking her head, and putting a finger to her lips to quiet her.