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They are in a small area on the edge on the woods, a short while later. The ball has moved along a little but, well. Time has a way of stretching and swirling strangely, as it always does – space too, sometimes.
And so they stand, together.
The fireworks are still going, bursting in brilliant colours through the sky and mingling with the stars. Rue would find them beautiful, but their eyes are elsewhere.
He doesn’t flinch, at the noise. His ears twitch, turning to the source of the sound each time, but that’s not altogether unusual. His customary composure is in fact fairly unruffled, in contrast to his earlier disquiet. But… there’s something. What it is they could not quite say, only that something in his manner has changed.
“Captain?”
“Hm?”
His ears flick towards them for a moment, before the next explosion of fireworks. From where he has been scanning the somewhat thinned out crowd of fey, he half-turns to them, and them glances back out and away.
They realise what is different, then, and feel slightly foolish.
Every other time that they have talked, his focus has never turned away from them once.
Previously, there has always been something in his way of addressing them, his way of looking at them, that has made them feel as though, in that moment, they were the only person in the Bloom who mattered.
Even now, after a moment passes and they do not elaborate, he turns to face them a little more, concerned.
“Master of Ceremonies? Are you quite alright?”
“I am well, Captain, there is no cause for concern,” they respond softly.
“Very good,” he murmurs.
“But I find myself restless. And this is, after all, a time for chasing impulse and whim.” Some complicated emotion flickers across his face at their words, just for a moment. But they push on. “Might you accompany me for a short walk?”
“I- of course.”
“Excellent.”
They offer him their arm. He blinks at it for a moment, as though unsure of what to do with it, before shaking himself slightly and taking it.
They walk, together, away from the masquerade and into the forest.
The noise fades behind them as they walk, and Hob cannot help but be grateful. He also cannot help but feel that a fireworks display has no business going on for so long. Then again, has any part of the celebration been frugal in the slightest?
He had been by no means insensible, but the show made him uneasy nonetheless. It had been an odd feeling – a combination of hyperawareness, instinctively scanning the surroundings for any offensive magic, and a strange distance from himself that is only now beginning to fade.
And as that fades, something else sharpens into clarity.
For a second time he walks through a forest, alone but for Delloso de la Rue.
But this time he does not have to look down to see their face. This time a careful distance has not been left between the two of them.
He wonders if they have kept his medal.
The thought reminds him of their conversation in the tailor’s shop, and he pushes back the swell of shame he feels. His intent had been to speak of their almost unfathomable courage, but their words had undone him to the point that he struggles to remember what he had even said in return.
He is seized, suddenly, with the conviction that they deserve better that.
It remains true that he has little right to offer his thoughts on such things, that his opinion here ought to hold no weight with them for reasons other than his goblin nature.
But their dance card has been empty.
Better him than no-one.
Surely even he can manage to put together something more coherent than whatever he had said before?
“I must confess,” He speaks hesitantly, “I am not quite sure that I said all I meant to say, yesterday.”
If they are surprised at his words after the long period of silence, they don’t show it.
“Oh?”
All at once, the fear that they might reprise their own role in this conversation creeps up his spine to whisper in his ear. It had been far too much even then and now, already somewhat scattered and out of sorts, he doesn’t think he could take it.
He takes a deep, steadying breath.
“Indeed. I know I have no right to speak on such things, but I cannot take the chance that you are not already aware.”
They have both stopped, now. They face each other in the moonlight.
“You are the bravest person I have ever known. The courage in your actions is beyond what I can comprehend.” He keeps his back straight, his voice steady. “You are remarkable.”
“…Oh.” Their voice is hushed, their eyes wide, and he hopes against hope that in his overstepping, he has not hurt them once more in some way he has failed to grasp.
After a moment, they gather themself. He waits, trying not to outwardly show his nerves.
“…Thank you. That… that means a lot.” They pause for a moment, and then frown, suddenly. “But I must ask- what do you mean by saying you have no right to speak of this?”
Ah. They are going to make him say it, then. Rue is not cruel – not even to him – he knows that by now. So there must be some intent, or hidden meaning here, that he is not seeing. Really, that should be unsurprising.
But they asked, and so he will answer.
“I only mean to say that, well.”
He pauses a moment. They make a soft noise of encouragement, and the unexpectedness of it makes him loose his train of thought a little more.
“It is only- well- on what basis can I speak of bravery?”
They frown, openly confused. “Captain, what are you talking about?” They glance away from him, looking down at their hands for a moment. “Was that medal not yours?”
He relaxes very slightly. This is a line of questioning he can deal with. “It was. But in actuality, the events that led to my receiving it were far more tied to strategy, to ferocity. …Nothing compared to you.” That last is said almost involuntarily.
They frown a little more, and the tension creeps back up on him. He has answered wrong, then.
“Captain.” They hesitate. “Knickolas.”
His ears flick back. They say his name so softly, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with it, how to hold it in himself without falling apart.
They continue. “Your courage in not… hiding yourself. That is part of what helped me to make my choice. It was a comfort to me, in a difficult time.”
“…Courage?” He wants to laugh. And a true goblin shouldn’t keep such impulses in check, so he does – a short, harsh sound that brings what looks almost like concern to Rue’s eyes.
“Yes. Courage.” Their voice is severe in its intensity.
But… “Master of ceremonies, I fear that you ascribe to me a level of such things that I simply do not possess. I am less than you think I am.”
They look as though they wish to speak, but this, he needs them to understand.
“Had I known of some... spell, or trick, or knowledge, that could hide my failings from those around me, I would most certainly have been doing just as you have for... many years, now.”
“Even now, having borne witness to your... quite astounding bravery. Were I to discover the means to hide so thoroughly and effectively, I cannot say for sure that I would not take it.”
“This,” And he gestures to himself, “Is not some- great courage, that you do not possess. It is simply a lack of the skill that you have so masterfully displayed.”
“In fact I- I often thought that it might be... nice. To be able to pretend in a way that convinced anybody.” The implications of his words strike him as soon as he has said them, in something half-panic half-guilt, and he rushes to amend them.
“Most likely I was mistaken. I do not mean to diminish your pain.”
“Knickolas.” Again, it is soft, and again, he cannot quite comprehend it. “Just because it is not a choice, doesn’t make it easy. Making yourself into something you’re not-” They stop, and take a moment to compose themselves- “That is a kind of pain, yes. But so is what comes after, and what comes before. They’re just different flavours of it.”
For a moment they look away, eyes tightening.
“I will not deny that there is a part of me that wishes I had never had the option of pretending. That the choice was out of my hands.” They sigh. “But it is more complicated than that. I know that. As do you.”
They reach out, ever so gently, and take his hand in theirs.
“You are yourself. In this world, that is bravery enough.”
Something wrenches in him at that, a hollow empty space in his chest that houses something coiled tighter than a spring.
“Why?” he asks. “Why must that be bravery?”
They open their beak to reply, but before they can speak he continues.
“It cannot be brave simply to exist as myself. I do not want that to be bravery. Because- because if who I am must always require courage to bear…”
He looks out into the forest. Away.
“There must be something in me that is broken beyond repair.”
“Captain, no! What are you saying? If-“
And they stop, and breathe out slightly, expression tight. Are they angry with him?
“Just, ask yourself this. Why must the problem be with you?”
He looks down, and- oh.
He hasn’t let go of their hand.
He is almost transfixed by the sight for a moment. It is so close to his in size and shape – claws curled around claws. The most natural thing he has ever felt.
Rue squeezes his hand softly, and speaks.
“Do you think me broken?”
His head snaps back up to meet their gaze in an instant.
“No! Never!” The words are drawn from somewhere deep within, and spoken with more conviction than any order he has ever shouted.
They smile. Their eyes, somehow, seem sad.
“Do you understand what that means?” they ask, voice so unbearably gentle that a shudder runs through him.
“I- I don’t- please, speak plainly.”
“We are the same.”
He draws in a sharp breath, but they continue.
“In so many ways, we are the same. And you-”
They stop for a moment, meeting his eyes as though they are looking for something. Whatever it is, they seem to find it.
“You make me love myself more.”
Oh.
After the tea party, when he had seen their true form, resplendent, for the first time, he has been sure he understood. His words, his presence, could not have affected them at all. He had merely been unintentionally presumptuous, assigning himself an importance in their eyes that was never his to claim.
It was a different pain to the sting of rejection – just the dull, blunt knowledge that you matter to someone far less than they matter to you.
He had accepted that; come to terms with it even. At least he had thought so.
And then they had ripped his world into pieces and spun the scraps in circles, and told him that he ought to take care of himself. He thinks perhaps his world had needed to be ripped into pieces.
He had found it hard to believe, earlier, that there were no other names on their dance card, and the more time passes, the less possible it seems.
And now this.
If the sound of his name in their voice was too much to understand, this is beyond anything. Certainly beyond him, at least in his current state, already shaken.
He should respond. It seems important that he respond. But if he is ever going to be able to give a response that their words deserve, it will not be today.
“Captain?” They look worried. Perhaps slightly nervous.
He straightens up a little more.
“Delloso de la Rue.”
He likes how their name sounds. How it tastes, on his tongue.
He bows his head over their hand, still held in his. “Would you still like that dance?”
Their eyes soften. “I would like nothing more.”
Alone, in the forest, they dance.
It is very quiet. There is no music but a gently hummed tune.
A tiny, fragile part of him, shivering in its newness, wonders if maybe, they can both be brave.