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He can make fire dance.
Magic seems to have favoured him, being channelled through his wand with little resistance and, between Confringo and Bombarda, creating flames that burned with unwavering heat. It dances and sings and destroys all around him, its flames and smoke not once marring his clean robes.
He is untouched, unperturbed by the heat he ceaselessly dresses the air with, the scent of sandalwood and ash sewn into his being. His hair is the same colour as death, Rosalie likes to think, as the darkness of the great unknown takes over one’s vision.
It is only when his back is turned that she feels safe. As if death has not come to claim her yet. As if death is the one thing keeping her alive. It scares her more than anything else.
His wand whips to his side, sending a final spell to the side and splaying droplets of Ashwinder blood on everything but him. She is far away enough, where the dirtiness of battle does not reach, and she is watching the gore scenario with unease and awe.
The scene from before, a group of unseemly Ashwinders descending upon the Hogsmeade approaches, seems like a long-distant memory, a harmless nightmare more than anything else. Sebastian had wasted no time leaping into battle before her own wand was even drawn, leaving her to watch the battle end within seconds of it starting at all.
The Ashwinders had not stood a chance.
Embers disperse around him as he scans the area one last time, daring another wave to appear from thin air. There comes nothing, just as it should be.
Rosalie looks around at the stark absence of enemies on the open grounds between the forest and the northern approaches to the villages, to which the gentleman pays her no mind quite yet. She knows that he would listen if she spoke, though, as he always does, and she decides that now is as good a time as ever to broach the topic that has been on her mind for days now.
“Sebastian...” She pipes up, her throat as dry as the heated air. “Thank you for the help. I am grateful that you are watching out for me, but you do not have to protect me. I had that wave under control.”
It takes more of Rosalie than she cares to admit for her to muster this pitiful phrase. Her voice betrays her with how small it came out. She hardly sounds convincing, and that is precisely what she does not need right now.
“I'm fine on my own, really.” She adds that last bit for good measure, afraid he will take it the wrong way otherwise.
Intoxicating. The way he looks at her right then is as intoxicating as wine, and the words feel heavy on her lips. Within moments, a sense of shame washes from her head to her toes like a tidal wave, because the twitch that ghosts over his face is not natural.
Despite the cue, she is not able to distinguish what sort of emotion brings about such hard look to his face, nor what he considers in his intimacy. It is hard to tell what he is thinking because despite the confusion and turmoil in his stomach, it never shows on his face.
What had happened, exactly, to make him forget how to feel so thoroughly, to have shed so much of his humanity, she wonders. Anne? Solomon? His parents? Ominis? Or is it more of a conjunction of circumstances? She might as well be the only person left in his life, as his foray into the Dark Arts cost him every other meaningful connection. He does not use those curses any longer, but they seemed to have left a mark on him and his magic.
It was then that Rosalie realizes, she does not know the answer. She does not know what made him forget how to feel. She does not know anything about him anymore, if she ever did.
Sebastian puts his wand away on his sleeve holster, finally turning his attention toward her. He does a quick scan of her body to assure himself that last fight had left her unscathed, which, naturally, it did. When his gaze settles on her face, his expression is thick like smog.
The pit in her stomach expands. He exhales through his nose, and Rosalie tries to ignore the guilty pang in her stomach.
“Although I appreciate the gesture, there is no need for gratitude. That being said…” His countenance lightens ever so slightly, mindlessly adjusting his collar when he picks up on her discomfort. “I suppose I have never explained myself satisfactorily. It is only natural that you are apprehensive.”
His eyes flicker to the slight tremble of her legs, a result of having spoken her mind after weeks of staying quiet.
His heart twists. He has always been aware that she is not keen on his overprotective behaviour, but he would keep telling himself that she requires his care and oversight, even if, clearly, it is not the case. He would keep telling himself that she needs him in her life, by her side, and the pretty world he would craft in his head will start to fracture.
As it currently stands, she has hardly had a chance to properly defend herself in battle, as he always finds a means to step in and ‘help’ her. Which always results in her standing back and him handling the rest. He realizes he has stripped her of her ability to make decisions for herself.
Sebastian is keenly aware of the scent of fire that still dances through the air, a reminder that he has overstepped his bounds yet again. A reminder that he has grown attached, yet again. A reminder that with love comes hurt, yet again.
He should not have helped.
“You are due an explanation, but I am not sure if I...” He trails off, the words not quite reaching his lips.
Because he is not sure about what? He is well-aware of the fact that, having absorbed the foul magic of Isidora’s, she has far surpassed any reasonable expectations in terms of both offense and defence, certainly being much, much stronger than he himself. She has no trouble holding her own against those pitiful Ashwinder stragglers, having been making them buckle to their knees back when they were much more powerful and well-organized.
In all regards, Rosalie is perfectly capable of fending for herself, and yet his stomach flips the moment he sees her under attack. There is clearly no need for worry, considering she is quick to dispatch of any foe that stumbles her way, and yet.... And yet...
“I am unable to tell you. Not right now.” He concludes, weary. “Not right now, but soon. You have my word.”
Sebastian exhales through his nose, dissatisfied with his own answer. She is several feet away, always careful to keep an appropriate distance, and he still feels her muscles tense at the lacklustre response.
“I...” She stutters. “I see. I suppose that is fine...”
Her apprehension drops, for now, but she is still wary of him. That expression of uncertainty is enough to form a pit in his very core, but he does not let his mask slip, having already overstepped his boundaries enough.
He will have to take measures to rectify his reputation in her eyes, a job he takes as seriously as anything else on his plate. Considering she saw him cast Avada Kedavra, that should not be too easy, but it is still of paramount importance to him. He has already lost many people dear to him, so please, he has to fix this.
Please, by all the gods, Sebastian cannot stand to lose Rosalie too.