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The relief that flooded Thorn's body when Ophelia stumbled clumsily into the Coordinator Room was incomprehensible, even if she did send several cardboard boxes tumbling to the ground in her wake. He allowed himself a moment to glance up from the binocular lenses of his projector, watching as she wandered into the glowing light the machine was casting onto the wall opposite him. As far as Thorn could see, despite seeming a little dazed and confused, she appeared unharmed.
She was okay.
Despite everything, Ophelia was okay.
"Don't stay in the light." Thorn cast the order out authoritatively, his long fingers rotating the knob on the side of the machine that made the spool of film unwind through the lens of the viewer. "Take a box," he added briskly when Ophelia didn't immediately move.
Slowly, Ophelia moved out of the light and made her way towards the back of the room. She ended up in the corner opposite from the one Thorn was currently seated in, perched on a stool that was much too small for him, his back hunched over the microfilm viewer. While his eyes flickered methodically over the text cast on the wall opposite him, he listened to her tear into one of the many cardboard boxes littering the room, seemingly picking one at random.
"If you can make out a date, put the oldest to one side," Thorn instructed. He had come to the end of the spool of microfilm he had been closely studying, so he quickly swapped it out for a new one, placing the old film to the side, where it wouldn't get in his way - or worse, mixed up with those he hadn't yet read. He had no time to lose through confusion at the best of times, but especially not today.
As he carefully scanned the new transparency projected onto the wall opposite him, Thorn could see Ophelia out of the corner of his eye. She was standing still, gazing at him intently, and she hadn't yet begun sorting through any of the spools. He frowned. She was making him nervous. Thorn didn't consider himself as someone overly concerned with physical appearances, but he couldn't remember the last time he'd bathed, the last time he'd eaten, the last time he'd slept, even. Would Ophelia be able to tell? Was she looking at him in disgust? Or was there something she wanted to say to him - to tell him?
"I am aware of your altercation with Fearless-and-Almost-Blameless; of your edifying conversation with Professor Wolf; and of your research into E. G.'s books after they were destroyed by Mademoiselle Silence," Thorn said, not stopping to take even a single breath. He had learned of this information through Lady Septima, who had also enlightened him to the fact that Ophelia had been locked away in solitary confinement. The memory of this discovery cast a shiver down his spine. "You had an excellent lead there. If we had discussed it the other evening, rather than both getting agitated, we would have saved time."
The truth was, he regretted the way he'd spoken to her, regretted turning his back on her the way he did. He just didn't know how to put this regret into words. He never seemed to know how to put anything into words when it came to Ophelia.
"All the micro-documents you see here were created for the Interfamilial Exhibition of sixty years ago," he said by way of explanation as he returned to peering through the binocular lenses. "They have never been sorted since then. It would be reasonable to suppose that a copy of E. G.'s books might be found somewhere in these cardboard bo-"
Thorn didn't get a chance to finish his sentence.
"I won't be a virtuoso," Ophelia interrupted him, her voice quiet and timid. It was the first time she'd spoken since she entered the room.
Guilt flooded Thorn's veins, because he knew that this development was partly due to him. He was only trying to protect her, to achieve what he hadn't managed to so many times before, to secure the safety of his wife, though he knew Ophelia would never see it that way. Behind her innocent and mousy appearance, she was incredibly stubborn and headstrong, and she never seemed to take well to Thorn meddling in her affairs. He understood to an extent, but if she could just try to understand why he always involved himself, if she could just see how much her wellbeing meant to him...
"I suspected as much," he said stiffly, not daring to look at her. "I gave an unfavourable opinion on your promotion. I presume that must have had some influence."
"You did what?" Ophelia stammered. Confusion laced her voice, as well as a hint of something else that Thorn couldn't quite seem to pin down. Anger? It was probably anger. "But I thought you wanted-" She stopped talking abruptly, leaving her sentence unfinished.
Thorn recoiled upon realising that what he heard in her voice was, in fact, not anger. It was hurt. She thought he didn't want her here anymore. She thought he didn't want her at all. Couldn't she see that the opposite was true? Couldn't she see that she was the only thing he wanted?
"I changed my mind." Thorn was aware that he sounded clinical and somewhat uncaring. He was also aware that he couldn't let feelings, either his or Ophelia's, get in the way of his primary goal; which was, of course, guaranteeing her safety. "It recently struck me that the Genealogists were a little too interested in the future Forerunners. I shouldn't have encouraged you to obtain that grade. Your cover wouldn't have fooled them for long."
"In that case, you could have..."
"Spoken to you about it first? You were not exactly reachable these last few days."
He felt terrible as soon as he'd spat the bitter words out of his mouth. He wasn't angry with Ophelia, not in the slightest, and he couldn't stand the way she immediately went quiet at his outburst, drawing back into the shadows of the room until he could barely make her out any longer. He wasn't angry with Ophelia... he was angry with himself.
This internalised feeling of hatred and disgust was not unfamiliar to Thorn. In fact, one might say it was a daily struggle for him, especially since Ophelia had come into his life. Or rather, since he had dragged her, kicking and screaming, into his life. Since their first meeting, Ophelia had suffered almost as much abuse, both mental and physical, as Thorn had throughout his entire sorry life, and the worst part was, deep down, he'd expected this. Deep down, he'd known from the very start that he was putting her in danger.
He just hadn't expected to fall in love with her.
Now, that - that had really been a surprise to him. He couldn't even identify when it happened, or how it happened, for that matter. He just knew that, one day, he had looked at her and she hadn't meant anything at all to him, and the next day, he looked at her and she suddenly meant everything.
Thorn took a deep breath - in through the nose, out through the mouth, just like Berenilde had taught him when he was a little boy - to calm himself, and went back to turning the dial on the side of the projector, revealing the next jumble of text for him to read. Time was of the essence, and he couldn't let emotions get in the way. He was close to a breakthrough. He could almost feel it.
"There is something else I must tell you. That I should have told you before, in fact."
Thorn gritted his teeth as Ophelia spoke. Was she aware how incredibly difficult she was making this for him? How was he supposed to concentrate when she wouldn't stop talking?
"It can surely wait a bit longer. At the rate of transparency every ten seconds and a microfilm every four minutes, I will have found what I'm looking for between now and dawn." He paused to change the spool of his viewer before clamping his eyes back on the binocular lenses.
Ophelia fell silent, and Thorn fell back into concentration. His eyes scanned over the document projected in front of him, his fingers never stopping their rotation of the knob as he scrolled further and further through the spool. By halfway, he could tell that this microfilm was also a dead end, just like the last seven-hundred-and-sixty-two had been. He tried not to feel any disappointment. He would find what he was looking for eventually. One way or another, he had to.
Thorn was just coming to the end of the microfilm - in record speed, too - when he heard Ophelia's timid voice behind him.
"I love you, too."
Thorn didn't have time to react to her words, didn't have time to take in what she was saying, before he felt her fingertips brushing lightly against his shoulder. Her movement was so sudden, and Thorn hadn't expected it, and at once, without his permission, he felt his claws gearing up, preparing themselves to attack. His claws were going to attack Ophelia. He spun around to catch her wrist, to prevent her from laying her hand on him, because he knew he would not be able to control what he would do to her if she touched him. He would not be able to stop himself from hurting her, and there would be no coming back from that. Ophelia might never forgive Thorn, and Thorn doubted he would ever be able to forgive himself.
Her eyes widened in surprise as he grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her to him so abruptly that the stool tipped over below him, sending them tumbling backwards. Thorn broke Ophelia's fall, his back meeting the concrete ground with a loud thwack. The glass of the microfilm viewer shattered as it fell to the floor with them, sending shards of glass flying in all directions, and Thorn didn't miss the way that Ophelia buried her head further into his chest, as if using him for protection. He responded by holding her against him all the more tightly in an attempt to prevent her from becoming injured, his heart faltering as her chest pressed against his own.
His heart skipped yet another beat when he remembered why he had ended up here on the floor, surrounded by glass with Ophelia on top of him. He had been about to use his claws against her. Involuntarily, but still. He shuddered at the thought, remembering just how cruel the Dragon's claws could be. He and his fifty-six scars knew this fact better than anybody else.
He should have warned her previously never to sneak up on him, but he had been embarrassed and ashamed. Embarrassed that he had lost control over his claws, ashamed that there was even a possibility that he might be capable of hurting her, accidentally or not. Regardless, he should have warned her. If it were not for his quick reflexes, this could have ended horribly.
"Above all, no sudden gestures," he said, his face buried in her hair.
He could feel that she was struggling to get up, and only then did it dawn on him how tightly he was holding onto her. His grip on her was so firm that it was no surprise she hadn't moved away from him yet. He relaxed his arms at once, allowing Ophelia to clamber off him, pressing her palm flat against his stomach for leverage. He pushed himself up until he was slumped against the bookcase behind him, watching as she settled herself on her knees across from him.
"Never do that again," he warned her, applying extreme emphasis to each word. "Take me by surprise," he clarified. "Never. Have you got that?"
Ophelia didn't reply. She seemed to be staring at his leg. When he looked down at it himself, he understood why. His leg brace had shattered almost completely.
"Nothing that can't be repaired," he said nonchalantly. "I have some tools in my bedroom." He paused, finally giving his attention to the shattered pieces of the microfilm viewer all around him. "This, on the other hand, is more problematic. I'll have to get myself another one." And fast. Time was running out.
"I don't think that is a priority," Ophelia snapped.
Thorn's head shot up to look at her. He was surprised by her tone at first, and equally so by her facial expression and body language. Arms folded over her chest, eyebrows knitted together, full lips curved downwards into a frown. He squinted at her, confused, until suddenly, he thought of her declaration.
"I love you, too."
Everything had happened so fast, and he had been so concerned with causing her no harm, that he hadn't given any thought to Ophelia's words. Had she really said what he thought she had, or was Thorn remembering wrong? Impossible. Thorn never misremembered anything, and especially not something as important as this.
When Thorn dared to take a glance at her, Ophelia appeared angry, offended, maybe even a little bit worried. Worried about what? She couldn't be worried that he no longer felt the same way, could she? That was ridiculous. He had loved Ophelia for so long that he almost couldn't remembered what life had been like before her, even despite his impressive memory.
Choosing not to think anymore, Thorn leant forward and pressed his lips against hers. At first, she tensed up, and Thorn worried that he had made a mistake, that maybe he had heard her wrong after all. But then, all of a sudden, she relaxed against him. Thorn reached up to cradle her face in his hands, his heart constricting at the feeling of the soft skin of her cheeks and the rough texture of her hair on his fingertips. Somewhere deep down, he registered that they had been knocked off balance once again, causing further disruption to the contents of the room, but that was hardly important. What was important was the feeling of Ophelia's lips on his, and the way she had crawled closer to him as loose papers from the bookcase started to rain down on them, her hands grasping at the front of his shirt.
Finally, completely out of breath, Thorn forced himself to pull back slightly. He studied Ophelia's face behind her glasses, holding it carefully between his hands as if it were the most precious object in the world. The first time he had laid eyes on her, she had appeared to him as little more than a fragile child. Now, he failed to see how he could've ever missed how beautiful and womanly she truly was.
"I warn you. The words you said to me, I won't let you go back on them." He could hear his voice crack as he spoke, and the sound surprised him. Never before had his throat felt so thick with emotion. If he could have avoided spoiling this moment with his words, he would have, but Ophelia had to know. She had to understand how seriously he took the words she had said to him, how important it was that she truly meant them.
"I love you," she repeated. Something about her tone made Thorn understand that what she had said was final, that what she had said was true. He could feel his pulse quickening by the second. "That's what I should have replied to you every time you wanted to know what I really wanted to say to you. Of course, I do want to unlock God's mysteries and regain control of my life, but... you're actually part of my life, actually. I called you an egoist, and at no time did I ever put myself in your shoes. Please forgive me."
Ophelia's face contorted slightly, almost as if she were in pain, and a large tear rolled down her cheek. The tear met with Thorn's thumb, spreading its wetness across his skin. He stared at it, his eyebrows drawing together in concern. Ophelia calling him an egoist had hurt. In fact, it had hurt more than he cared to admit. He couldn't stand to think that that was what she thought of him, how she felt about him. He truly was trying his best to keep her safe in a world that was against her, and he found it regrettable that she could not see that, that he could not succeed in showing her that. But she couldn't really think that he hadn't forgiven her, could she? She needn't seek forgiveness, because Thorn had already given it to her the second she had walked through that door.
She was gazing up at him the way a baby deer gazes at its mother; like something that requires protection. He had sworn long ago that he would dedicate his life to protecting her against everything that attempted to harm her, but that was before he'd lost control of his claws. Could he really trust himself around her anymore? Could he trust himself not to be the cause of her pain?
Thorn gripped her face tighter, forcing her to look at him. "I must insist," he muttered sternly. "Never again accost me from behind my back, or from any of my blind spots. Don't make any movements that I can't see coming in advance, or then warn me out loud."
Under the ever flickering lights of the transparency projector, a look of realisation crossed Ophelia's face. She swallowed, a movement that Thorn felt against the palms of his hands. "You no longer have control over your claws?"
She sounded concerned. Scared, even. Thorn felt terrible. He felt ashamed and embarrassed and guilty, as he had done ever since he realised he had lost control of his dangerous and potentially deadly family power. He never wanted to be the reason for Ophelia's fear.
"I can contain them if they don't see you as a threat," he replied carefully. "Which is why you must follow my instructions and avoid triggering defensive responses." He paused to sigh quietly. "You can't afford to be absentminded with me, it's as simple as that."
"But how did it happen? Could the injection of my Animism have destabilised your family power?"
"Does it disturb you?" Thorn asked outright. His eyebrow quivered nervously as he awaited Ophelia's answer. He would not blame her if her response was yes. He would not blame her at all. After all, this loss of control over his claws disturbed even himself and, deep down, he wasn't so sure that he could be trusted with Ophelia when he felt so out of control. He wished he could promise her that he would never cause her harm, but he couldn't. At least, not until she promised never to take him by surprise again.
"No," she replied quickly. "Now that I know, I'll be careful."
Thorn stared at her, looking for any sign that she was unsure of either her answer or of the feelings she had confessed to him. He studied her long and hard, and he found nothing but a sincere determination and honesty. Could it really be true? Ophelia loved him. But how could this be? How could Ophelia have fallen in love with Thorn, of all people? Since that night in the Pole when she had told him not to expect anything of her, that she did not love him and that she never would, he had learned to accept that his feelings towards her would forever be unrequited. He couldn't honestly say that he had ever been okay with this fact, but he had accepted it. He had learned to understand that to him, it mattered not that Ophelia was not in love with him, but rather that Thorn was in love with her. For as long as she allowed him to, he would protect her, whatever the cost, even if it meant that she would grow to resent him for the decisions he was forced to make on her behalf. He might have wished for it, but never had he predicted or allowed himself to hope that Ophelia would ever actually grow to love him back.
He tightened his grip on her face and hair, not wanting to let go, but knowing that he had to. It was vital that he get back to the task at hand, even if he wished to pull Ophelia back into his arms and hold her for hours longer. With a deep breath, he relaxed his hands, letting them fall to his sides. Ophelia looked at him questioningly.
Thorn cleared his throat before speaking. "You... My toolbox is under the bed in my room. Could you bring it to me? I must find a new microfilm viewer and get back to work, but to do that," he attempted to straighten his leg, but his knee joint refused, and a sharp pain that caused him to grimace spread from his hip all the way to the tips of his toes, "I'm going to need my leg."
"Is there really such a hurry?" Ophelia asked quietly.
Thorn averted his gaze from Ophelia's as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his fob watch. He wished desperately that there was no hurry, that they could spend hours here together, just soaking up the moment, but when the cover of his watch clicked open to show him the time - it had never stopped being animated since spending so long with Ophelia, and Thorn didn't much mind this quirk - he knew that they had wasted too much time already.
"In fact, there is," he said solemnly as his fob watch closed its own cover. He stuffed it carefully back into his pocket. "A bit more than that, even. I have got until the end of the inauguration ceremony to find the book the Genealogists asked me for. Beyond that deadline, if I have nothing to offer them, they will make Sir Henry disappear from circulation." He paused to let his gaze meet hers. "Could you bring me my toolbox?"
Ophelia's eyes widened with each of his words and her mouth fell open. "They will make Sir Henry disappear from circulation," she repeated his words, as if trying to make sense of them. "You are Sir Henry."
Thorn realised that he had not been clear. Ophelia thought that the Genealogists were going to kill him if he did not deliver them the information they desired in the agreed upon time frame which, as far as he was aware, was not their plan. Rather, Thorn understood that they planned to remove the title of Sir Henry from him, taking with it his undercover identity and his protection from God which, now that he thought about it, would amount to about the same as shooting him right in the head. Still, he didn't want Ophelia to be afraid, or for her to worry about him. That's why, up until now, he had avoided broaching this subject with her altogether.
"It's merely an identity the Genealogists created for me," he reminded her in an attempt to reassure her, though her eyebrows remained knitted together tensely. "They can withdraw it from me at any moment, and hand me over to God, or even worse." This would take Thorn out of the equation and prevent him from facing up to God and from protecting Ophelia. Failure was not an option here. "Which they will do without the slightest hesitation if I don't give them what they expect from me before dawn. My toolbox, please."
Ophelia stared at him, dumbfounded. "You knew from the start that your days were numbered, and never mentioned it to me?"
"It would have been counterproductive to tell you about it."
"But why ally yourself to people like that? Why always put your life in danger like this?"
Thorn was sure he could detect a hint of frustration in her voice, and he couldn't entirely blame her for it. When the roles were reversed, when Ophelia chose to purposefully put herself in harms way with no regard for her wellbeing, it angered Thorn. He only hoped she could forgive him, and that she could learn to accept that, when it came to protecting her, to making the world a better place for her to live in, nothing else was as important. At the end of the day though, he didn't really give much regard to her opinion on this matter. Thorn would choose Ophelia's safety over his own time and time again, whether this pleased her or not.
"Because my life is the only thing I feel I have the right to put at stake. My toolbox, if you please," he replied, trying his best to hoist himself into a sitting position, rather than slumping against the wobbling bookcase, "and a flask of disinfectant, while you're at it." He cast a glance to the mess around him and shuddered at the thought of being contaminated by it.
"But why?" Ophelia asked again, sounding increasingly more impatient. "Why inflict that on yourself? Why force yourself to defy forces that are beyond you? And don't talk to me again of a sense of duty. You owe nothing to the world. What's the world ever done for you?"
Thorn felt his face relax in understanding. So Ophelia didn't understand, after all. She still thought this was about some greater purpose, about saving the world and becoming a hero. About losing his Bastard status and proving wrong all those people back on the Pole who thought nothing of him. Well, she was wrong. If she thought what Thorn was doing was about anything other than ensuring her safety, she was grossly mistaken.
Ophelia wasn't to blame for this misunderstanding. After all, it wasn't as if Thorn had been anything short of a terrible husband thus far. He had said nothing to her in a long time that explicitly suggested how he felt about her.
"You think it's for the world that I'm doing this?" Thorn choked out quietly, feeling his jaw harden. "God said he would keep his eye on you. Right in front of me. I make a lamentable husband, but I permit no one, particularly him, to persecute my wife. It's impossible for me to tear you away from God, but I can tear him away from you. And that's what I'm going to do at once, as soon as you deign to bring me that confounded toolbox. If a book exists that contains God's secret, and allows his invulnerability to be punctured, I will find it."
He'd said it. It was out in the open, how terribly he wanted to protect her. It was his duty as her legal husband, but it was also so much more than that. After all she'd been through, Ophelia deserved this. She deserved to be cared for, to be kept safe.
Ophelia stared at him for fifty-three seconds before she finally rose to her feet and made for his bedroom. He watched her go, watched the way she steered herself carefully around the smashed glass and papers strewn across the floor. His face suddenly felt wet, and he couldn't understand why until he reached up to touch it with his fingertips. A few stray tears had escaped his eyes and rolled down his face. He pulled his hand back to stare at the wetness. His tears glistened under the light.
Thorn was confused. He couldn't remember the last time he'd cried...
Ophelia re-entered the room, carrying his toolbox, and he hastily scrubbed the tears away, swallowing the lump that had appeared out of nowhere in his throat. She placed his toolbox down next to him.
"Repair your brace and forget your microfilms," she said. "I know where that book is."
Thorn stared up at her in amazement, both extremely surprised and, at the same time, not surprised at all by her unexpected announcement. After all Thorn's confusion that night, one thing was for certain: his wife, now more than ever, was not to be underestimated.