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Essek read a lot of romance novels in his adolescence—but as he became an adult and moved into politics he grew jaded about the idea, believing he would never be in a position to fall in love and be with someone he loved. All the standard excuses: I'm too busy, I'm married to my work, no one is good enough for me, I wouldn't like anyone my mother would approve of, the moment I even hint at being interested in pairing off my den is going to arrange a loveless marriage to a stranger for political gain, this is just a stupid childish interest, and so on, and so on.
But he still has a few books.
He still has a few books, and every few months, maybe once a year, he finds himself in a weak position and buries his nose in a florid story of planet-shaking love, so engrossed he tends to forget to eat and barely trances.
Afterward he lies on his trancing settee with the book on his chest and stares up at the ceiling, warm and full and...aching. Slowly the ice of This is not for me encrusts his heart in rime again, and it's just a momentary pain he has to endure—if he's weak enough to shed a few tears for his own loneliness, well, no one else is there to see his failure before he can compose himself again.
But then these people come into his life….
These people. They bring on one of those weak moments.
It's still fresh in his mind, in his chest, when they drag him to the ship in manacles. The novels' rescue scenes never looked like this.
In the intervening months of silence, he sometimes thinks of those books, and how stupid he was to get his hopes up. He might have had a chance at something but he fucked it all away before he even met them (met him). Eiselcross is a blessing. It's cold enough to remind him of what he needs to do to his heart again.
Why can't he ice it back over?
Why can't he ice it back over?
He does not bring those books with him. They taunt him over the miles they stand apart. He should have burned them instead.
(He knows whom he would have thought of staring into the flame.)
But it gets better.
Because they come back, they come back, and it's to torment and terrify him, sure, he deserves that, but they come back. And they delve and they fight and they save the fucking world, and when it's all said and done he returns to his post with the ghost of lips he's thought about a thousand times haunting the skin of his cheek. His chest is warm, but the lonely ache there stands out all the sharper for having found hope.
Some day, some month, a familiar voice bubbles through his mind, cutting through the monotony and paranoia to bring a smile to his lips.
"Jester," he speaks aloud to his empty office. "It's good to hear your voice. Read any good books lately?"