No plot, I just needed to see Oritel sickeningly in love. (And to show that they're equals when it comes to leaning on the other.)
Oritel woke up in darkness with a jolt. He shot up, the remnants of a nightmare clawing at the edges of his mind. The air felt thin and trembling as he gasped to fill his lungs, his racing heart impeding his efforts as it hammered against his ribs.
"Oritel?"Marion's voice floated in, quiet but clear.
He suppressed a whimper at the sound proving his imagination a liar, but the rush of relief was almost instantly eclipsed by guilt. Marion was awake, which meant he must have been tossing and turning for a while. Unlike him, she wasn't a light sleeper. She slept soundly, deeply, and peacefully – a state he sometimes envied but always adored for the certainty it brought him. The certainty of knowing that he could watch her, trace the delicate contours of her face with his fingers, or run them through the ends of her hair without fear of waking her. The certainty of knowing that, for a fleeting moment, she had escaped the burdens of the palace, the weight of the crown, and the relentless criticism that accompanied the role she'd been born into.
"I'm all right", he rasped, unable to turn his head lest he be faced with the images burned into his eyelids.
There was a soft rustling of sheets, followed by the comforting warmth of Marion's hands finding their way to his back and rubbing soothing circles. Each stroke unraveled the tension, one by one unlocking the shackles of dread that had ensnared him in his sleep. His breath came easier as his chaotic heartbeat began to yield to reality.
"Nightmare?" she asked, more empathy than anything else.
He nodded.
"About?" she pressed gently.
Sheepishly, he met her searching gaze. Half-hidden beneath the covers, soft with sleep, Marion's sharp edges were blurred by the surrounding darkness. It was an illusion; she had power that, even after two decades of marriage, was still beyond his comprehension. She wielded it effortlessly – a reminder that she was not to be underestimated. Though she appeared unguarded in his presence, Oritel knew she'd don her defenses as soon as she left the sanctuary of their bed, even if she'd recently shelved her crown in favor of armor more befitting a warrior.
He swallowed hard, the words trapped in his throat.
"Oh, my love," she murmured, her hands moving to cup his face, her touch warm and grounding.
Exhaling, Oritel realized he didn't need to voice the shadows that clung to him. She knew – she always knew. Because no matter how inexplicably, she loved him too.
"Marion…"
He whispered her name like a prayer, like it held the key to the universe. To him, it did. She was a marvel – nothing short of his salvation. He had been her parents' decision, but she had chosen him. As the one to share her duties, bed, and secrets with. As the one to show her heart, her dreams, and her fears.
She might not have been the Sun, but she was East; without her, his life would be an endless, aimless night.
She was close enough that her breath fluttered against his chest. He could feel the rhythmic pulse beneath his palm where he cradled her neck as she looked at him under her lashes, tired. His guilt surged anew; she needed all the rest she could get.
"I'm sorry."
Her face twisted into disapproval. "For what? You had a nightmare."
"Just a nightmare", he argued – not with her, but with the flickering mirages that gnawed at him like embers of a fire that refused to die out.
Marion huffed. "In your mind, you lived through something horrible."
She'd surely guessed the specifics, but Oritel appreciated her choice to respect his silence.
Her fierceness softened as she pressed her lips to his cheek before continuing, "Just because the damage was reversible does not mean there was none."
His bravado bled away under her gentle understanding. He couldn't look at her—couldn't bear to see the unflinching compassion in her eyes, knowing that she saw the cracks in him. He turned his face into her shoulder instead, burying himself in her warmth.
"I can't…" His voice cracked at the mere idea, and he couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence.
She shushed him. "You haven't; I'm here", she replied, her voice soft but sure. "I'm right here, love."
Her fingers worked through his hair with a tenderness that both comforted and terrified him. She'd chosen her words carefully, but he'd heard what she'd left unsaid, what she couldn't promise him.
He closed his eyes, shutting out the sliver of moonlight that sneaked through the heavy curtains. Had the roles been reversed, he would've lit a candle for Marion and matched the rhythm of his caresses to the pulsating glow of the flame until she'd soothed the one in her while he wasn't opposed to candles himself – naturally, as fire reminded him of her – he cherished the darkness for the solace it provided. It allowed him to focus on her presence without distraction.
"Come on", Marion coaxed, nudging his shoulder to get him to lie back down.
Reluctantly, he gave in to her. But his hesitation proved unfounded. He didn't need to ask; she didn't roll back to her side of the bed but shifted closer, instinctively knowing what he needed. Without a word, she swept her hair up across the pillow and pressed her back against his chest. He brushed the curls some more, his face full of her hair despite her best efforts not to suffocate him with it, and wept internally. She was there.
It wasn't enough, but "here and now" was all they had.
It took but a quiet hiss to remind him how wrong he was. Next to him, Marion shifted, the sudden tension in her body drawing his attention. He pulled back slightly, concern rushing through him.
She was equally quick to reassure him. "Just the usual, don't worry."
The ache in his heart mingled with a profound sense of gratitude. "May I?" he whispered, afraid that his voice would break again, but unwilling not to ask out loud.
"Of course", she replied just as softly. Her words were an invitation – the hidden urgency in them a reminder that while he wasn't alone in his fears, neither was he alone in fighting them.
He didn't need more than that. Reverently, he placed his hand on her stomach, fingers interlocking with hers over the life growing inside her, and held her as the quiet in the room settled around them.
By dawn, with his wife and unborn daughter both having fallen back asleep in his arms, Oritel managed to let Marion's even breaths ground him in the reality that was precious and fragile, but not without a flicker of hope – of a future.