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“Let me take you home.” Five simple words, a plea, combined with the lightest touch she could manage, fingertips on his arm as a warning before she slid her arms around him, cradling him against her chest.
Tristian returned the gesture awkwardly, not out of a lack of desire, but out of… an inability to accept this reality that was proving to be far kinder than he had ever dared to hope for. He relaxed incrementally, Avara’s steady heartbeat and protective embrace calming the wild, pounding flow of his life-blood.
The others in the room were kind enough to avert their eyes, to seek out the pretense of distraction in standing guard or organizing the mutilated body at their feet. Save for Octavia, who met Avara’s eyes with an expression born out of a soft, warm happiness, a freed slave finding renewed life in witnessing the freeing of another slave.
Avara’s lips quirked upwards in a small smile in return, before they found a better use in lightly kissing the top of Tristian’s head, a hand drifting up to push back his hood and free the sweat-slick hair beneath.
This proved to be a step too far, snapping the priest out of his moment of peace. Tristian stepped away, still within Avara’s encircling arms, but she released him when his back bumped up against her hands. “… I will never be able to fully thank you, Avara.” He said, voice clear, muffled only by his words being directed more at the floor than at her.
Her heart shrank, a dried sponge without the life-giving water of his love, his closeness. Instead, fear, dread crept in. He had previously proven his flightiness when it came to matters of romance, of closeness. The slightest misstep had him fleeing, apologizing for perceived wrongs, for taking up too much of her time. As if she would not sacrifice all – was currently sacrificing political standing, the lives of thousands of her ally’s army, to ensure his safety, to…
Bring him home. To her arms. To protection. To love.
Tristian, meanwhile, sighed, light in tone but heavy in exiting his heart. He took another careful half step away, still unsure of his positioning. “But please, allow me some time for thought. I will get back to the capital on my own.” He continued, as if sensing her lips splitting as her mouth opened, ready to protest. “I need… to think about many things. So long, Avara Minlo.”
And with that, he moved to step past her.
She stood, frozen for a moment, unwilling to believe this turn of events. It was… wrong. She had chased this man throughout the kingdom, spent over a week pushing her remaining companions through the harshness of the Tors of Levenies in the desire to get home as swiftly as possible, praying all the while that he would waiting for her at the capital, or barring that, news of his activities.
Candlemere, the Temple of the Elk, this strange set of catacombs filled with remnants of a childhood, she had conquered all again for this man.
For him to leave again, so suddenly, while so vulnerable – it was not something she could allow.
Avara spun around, catching sight of her brother – dependable Valen, who she sometimes thought had come from the same soul as her – already moving to step in front of the doorway, as if he had felt the resonating distress within her even as she was struggling to process it.
Her hand settled on Tristian’s shoulder – his progress had been minimal -, and she immediately flinched, guilty about the unannounced contact. Still, he did not flinch in kind, and breathed out a breath minutely heavier than usual, as if he had been expecting this resistance out of the stubborn Avara.
“I-“ She began, relaxing her hand’s grip, forcing it to lighten, even as she could not force herself to let him go – physically or emotionally. “I- I cannot let you leave. Not alone. Please.” Her fingers twitched with the desire to pull him close once more, but no – she was crossing one boundary already, she dared not drive him away by crossing another. The others with them, Ekundayo, Octavia, and Regongar, turned their attention back to the pair of them, drawn in by the unfamiliarity present in Avara’s tone. Never had they heard their leader so close to begging.
“I just got you back.” She whispered, wishing desperately that he would turn to face her, show her that face populated with soft features, crossed by the new addition of a strip of cloth - cloth she suspected was from the hem of his robes. Maybe his presence would feel more real, more grounded, then, if she could see him.
- - - Was that how he felt too? Continually, constantly, now? Unanchored from the reality of this world, from the reality of her? Was that why he needed to leave? To weave together new connections to this plane, to anchor himself?
Her breath hitched at the sharpness of the thought, of that strike of understanding, a spear of light in her. “I … I need you safe. And I cannot… believe that you will be safe on your own, not now, not after all that has happened. This is not a lack of faith in you – you are, are the strongest man I have ever met –“ Tristian’s shoulder tensed under her touch, the aborted beginnings of pulling himself away from her, no doubt to argue, to point to his previous actions. “ – No.” Avara interrupted before he could start, unleashing a burst of fierce intensity into the single word, intensity born of pain that she had carried inside of her for two weeks, previously only let loose in her moments of crying weakness in her brother’s comforting embrace, when the beast of pain within her had not been able to contain its wailing. “No.” She repeated, feeding that beast memories of moments ago, when Tristian had found peace in her touch. “You are. But you are hurt. Those golems struck you, they struck me as well, and I know how it feels. I know that much, even if I cannot even begin to imagine the hurt within your soul.”
Tristian twisted around now, mouth slightly agape as his open-palmed hand reached out to locate her side, resting a light touch on her ribs, his experienced healing touch feeling out the injuries she had foolishly admitted to.
Her own hand, now devoid of a perch, swooped down to grasp his wrist, pulling it away from her wound. “You may heal me when you accept Ekunyando’s company on your way back.” She said with the cruel practicality that had proven a last resort at times in the management of her barony.
His eyebrows rose, indicating his sightless eyes widening as his mouth opened further in a look of betrayal. It wounded her, so she looked away, ducking her head to press a light kiss to the palm of the hand she had captured. “I cannot bare to lose you again.” She breathed out, words meant for him alone, her lips tickling against his palm. “That is one path I could never force myself to trod.”
Tristian’s fingers twitched, then slowly curled upwards, settling along her cheek. “… I accept.” He breathed in kind, taking a step closer, to bring himself a hair’s width away from her. “I… have caused you trouble aplenty, it would be a mortal sin to have a hand in your end, after – after-“ He swallowed, unable to complete the thought, not when the wounds were so fresh, not yet sewn neatly shut by days of thought and travel. “I accept.” He repeated, soft in his yielding, firm in his decision.
She heaved in a shocked breath, surprised that something as underhanded as that maneuver had worked, even as guilt for that action flooded her. It was swiftly overridden by relief, that he would not be alone, he would not be vulnerable to the whims of what threats remained in her lands. Ekundayo and Okbo would prove to be the best company Tristian could have on his travels back; the pair’s reticence would give him the space he requested to think on all that had transpired, while still providing assistance in matters involving battle and camping.
“… then you have my permission to heal me.” Avara said, the words exiting her mouth on the ripples of a relieved laugh. She released his hand – he would have been able to tug it out of her grip with ease at any moment, even though she was of strength enough to lift half a dozen of him without inconvenience.
Tristian’s hand remained where it was for a brief moment, as his eyebrows knitted together in confusion at some internal mulling. It then dropped, lingering lightly as he allowed it to fall away.
Avara drank in the sight of him as he settled into the pattern they had all grown accustomed to in their years of traveling. She moved only when directed, removing armor, applying pressure where indicated, but her eyes were fixed on him through it all.
He had allowed her to take him home, after all, he would not be torn away from her ever again.