Work Text:
Caleb von Valancius sighed.
He was sat at his desk, the empty void of space behind him, trapped in the window.
He massaged his temple, futilely hoping to dispel that persistent headache, hounding him since morn. Or whatever passes for morn, aboard a vessel travelling that had no fixed Sun to calibrate the hours.
He was also hoping this vigorous rubbing would also dispel his irritation, a far nastier companion than a mere headache. He doesn’t know when it started exactly.
He was irritated at the situation in the protectorate –now marked as heretics and rebels. He was irritated at Nomos, for being incredibly distant and leaving him to deal with the far messier aspects of statesmanship. He was irritated at the squabble on the docks, the bickering of officers –even though, such a thing doesn’t usually bother him. He was irritated by the lumens on his ship, assaulting his eyes when he’d much rather stay in the dark. He was irritated that he has to return to Dargonus, already seething at having to listen and look at the teeming sycophants, plaguing his court. He was irritated at the Warp, for intruding upon his ship again, spreading misery in the hearts of the crew, and the crew’s viscera in the pipes and walls. He was irritated at the God-Emperor, for creating an Imperium than only wants to see them die for their rebellion. He was irritated at these sheets of paper on his desk, which he could not concentrate upon. Reports and missives and vox-transmissions. Such an annoying static of noise, a pesky creaking of pages, the lot of it. He was irritated at himself, for not being able to concentrate in his own workplace. He was also irritated at his irritation, for not going away.
Everywhere, everything. No anchoring point for this aggravation –simply a an all-engulfing, diffuse dispersal of scorn, towards anything that happens to briskly pass in his mind. A noxious gas, or perhaps, a enclosing of walls, pressing far too much on him, choking him like smoke in the throat, every sensation freeing a seething from his lungs or a spark from his mind.
Caleb von Valancius knew what this was. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt it, nor will it be the last.
The gloom. The melancholy. The despondency. The misery. The depression.
His mother always told him to keep his spirits up. Told him to live a little. He wondered now, if that little turned to much.
What was he doing? Why was he here? What’s the point of it all?
He was born a wretch, on some dreg of a ship. A father, violent and paranoiac and hypocritical and insulting. A mother, demure and obeying and forgiving and hysterical. No time for pleasure, only scraps to scavenge. Always be polite, never be violent, never be rude, never raise your arms to protect yourself. Never seek trouble, avoid confrontation, avoid the guards, don’t avoid your parents eyes when they tell you not to flinch. Think about the future, the next meal, the next house, the next job. Maybe find a wife, she’ll make you happy. Pray to the God-Emperor and his Saints, they’re our salvation. Obedience and sacrifice, those are the twin pillars of the Imperium. Follow those and things will be better for you. Speak no heresies, murmur no complaints, expect no understanding.
He made it out of that ship, royally in fact. Human affairs are multifaceted, but turns out, anything can be solved through sheer grit and a dollop of base nastiness.
First you steal, then you hide, then you see, then you listen, then you talk, then you plot, then you betray and bam, all the bottom-feeders are eating out of the palm of your hand.
Eyes on the prize, ear to the road, nose for the opportunity.
Now those idioms ring with the truth, unlike the groxshit of Imperial dogma. Then again, not everything the Imperium teaches is to throw away.
Empathy can be lethal in higher dosage. It’s easier if you treat it like an operation, analogous to an mathematical formula. And hey look, the Imperium already does that, it’s why it survived this long. So, why not you?
He thrived as a baron of crime. From scrapper to lord of villainy. A meteoric rise to dizzying heights. Power’s cup overflows with intoxicating nectar. But he always tried to pace himself, he likes to believe.
He was determined (meaning ruthless), always. Callous, on occasion. Never let others take your chances away. Never fully trust anyone. Always keep yourself under control. Let them talk, they always give away something. Staying on top was as difficult as getting there. Seed good crops, harvest their spoils, allow them a pittance, to keep them in check. Root out bad weeds, purge the sickened soil. A baseline efficiency is needed, choices require a strong will to be decided, strong arms to be executed.
He was bad, simple as that.
No one ever lent him a hand, then why should anyone else get his, or any other?
Let them all be miserable, everyone deserves it.
He’d dazzle them, trick them, make them froth in jealousy. Top of the scrapyard is the bottom of another world, but he was content. This suited him. Getting into the thick of a lasfight or a hot negotiation.
And then, he slipped. Careless overconfidence, killing slowly and insidiously. Didn’t check the transmissions properly. Didn’t see the interconnected web of schemes, before he fell into it. That’s on him. That holiday in the gaol made him repeat that sentence over and over again. Until it was as branded on his skin as the scars of torture.
He’d already accepted he was going to spend the rest of his miserable life in that hole, a canvas for the tormentors to express themselves.
And then, he was free. Release the von Valancius heir!
He never knew of this prestigious ancestry. His parents were the furthest things from nobility. Abelard left him a book, giving precise details about the history of the von Valancius dynasty. He never read it, he wasn’t interested in which of his ancestors messed up so bad, that their descendant had to survive by hunting void rats to fill an empty belly. And now, this name unlocked his door to freedom. What a useful key.
But he knew that key had a price. Everything does. Something would be asked of him.
‘Something’ being a whole heap of adventures. Landed on the Rogue Trader’s ship. Survived a mutiny in the Warp. Survived the corruption of a planet and a confrontation against a fallen Angel. Managed to establish an alliance with obnoxiously prolix and arrogant Xenos. Cleansed a corrupted Forge-World. Was threatened by a Lord-Inquisitor in his quarters (Chaos rip that bastard’s soul to shreds). Survived Commorragh, the city of alien madness and excruciating suffering. Vanquished a Lord of Change of the Architect of Fate. Subdued a splinter of one of the first gods in the universe, the eternal C’tan.
And turned the necrodermis skin of that C’tan, over to a machine-spirit from his ship. Who then, helped him establish and protect a protectorate of benevolence and kindness, free from the destroying grip of the Imperium.
See, when he was freed, he saw that as a sign for change. He no longer believes in higher powers or gods, whichever obfuscating terminology they like to take to mask their nature. But here was his chance. Being selfish and cruel, he’d tried that. Didn’t work out too well for him. Maybe this was time for a shift in morality. A gradual, tentative shift but an attempted shift nonetheless.
Maybe he’d lend a hand.
It’d be hard, for sure, but being a Crime Lord was even harder.
He realised that being kind wasn’t more difficult than being wicked. And it felt more rewarding. And strangely, the qualities he applied to being a Crime Lord could easily be transplanted to being a benevolent Rogue Trader. No one said he couldn’t be manipulative or opportunistic. He was now in the realm of high politics; cunning was a prerequisite.
He found a strange harmony, between his love for daring risks reaping high rewards, and the attempts at simply helping someone, anyone. To whatever his abilities, no matter the danger to his person. He ordered the ship to accept the survivors of Rykad Minoris, despite the reservations of his aide-de-camp. He helped the Aeldari save themselves to kinder stars. He’d even managed to help his companions see his way, to gently remove the thorns in their hearts. So maybe, they too, would extend a helping hand when they see someone who needs it. To find strength where it truly lies: solidarity. Except Marazhai. He was kind, not capable of miracles. At least, he stopped him from killing crewmembers on his ship.
Caleb von Valancius lived an eventful life, which he was only at the beginning of.
So, why did it feel hollow?
At the end of the day, does any of this matter? Time undoes anything. His life will become memory, will become anecdotes, will become rumours, will become lies, will become legend. But he will still be dead. And right now, he feels dead.
Was there anything to look forwards to? This pseudo-empire will become dust, it’s inevitable. His companions too. Without his presence, they might fade even faster. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, he thought. Be done with them. Right now, I don’t care what happens to them.
And what would he do? He has many interests but they all look dull and unpleasurable right now. He can’t even find the strength to look at the reports laying on his desk! He can keep doing the same thing he always does, but it’s only monotony now. A force of habit. And what would be the point of finding something new to do? He wouldn’t be good at it. He’s not sure he’s good at being a Rogue Trader.
Who is he, to lead a corner of the galaxy? A scrap kid. He was never anything, never amounted to anything. He’s here through sheer luck. Sometimes, he wonders if this is not all a dream, inflicted by the hallucinogenic concoctions of his torturers.
And why is he doing this? To help people? To extend that hand? Why should he do that? No one said it was his duty, someone else take the burden.
Lord-Captain is far too grand a title. Prince of Wretchedness is better.
Haunting thoughts overwhelm. Swallow any sparkling of light, any dash of hope. Sever connections to people, to pleasure, to activity. Dark mites gnaw at the heart, intent on leaving a pit where the strong pulse of life once hammered. Only remains the façade.
A curse of void, far older and more potent than anything the Grandfather could brew.
He feels it, as strongly as before. Maybe even stronger now, after Commorragh and everything he’s learned.
He feels a tiny tear escape the corner of his eye. He brushes it. He doesn’t even feel sad, is the thing. No real reason to be sad. He has a roof over his head, food at his table, companions at his flank, a duty and avocations to avoid time. There is nothing to make him sad, he thinks. And he doesn’t feel sad. Just empty. And irritated. And tired.
The entire room feels like a bubble. There is just him in here. The trophies, the papers, the instruments, the decorations, all mix and merge into something formless. He can still spot everything perfectly, details and all. Space has simply lessened and greyed.
His hands feel febrile. The miniscule shake rattles him. He closes his fists to stop it. He wills it all to go away. When he opens his eyes and hands again, the shake remains.
Maybe some amasec will clear his mind. Or reading a book. Or pouring himself over his work. Or the laspistol on his belt.
He snarls and bats the papers off his desk. Slouching forwards, he clutches at his knees and grits his teeth. The rattle has spread to his jaw. He feels like a Krak grenade, with the pin ready to fly.
His vox-caster crackles to life.
“Lord-Captain, Lady Cassia has asked to see you.” Fellow Voidborn Vigdis, announces the news.
Elation and horror blindside him. Keeping up the façade was much more difficult before Cassia, and that problem had nothing to do with her powers.
The problem was, Caleb von Valancius was deeply, hopelessly in love with Cassia Tisiphia Evriaella Orsellio (or simply Cassia, as she preferred to be called now).
Being in love meant many things. Patience, understanding, acceptance, commitment, devotion, adoration, worship, growth. All these things take time and talk. Both ingredients allow any person with even an inkling of insight, to learn the subtle cues and wants of the other person.
He learned her favourite chef-d'oeuvres of literature. He knew she had a fondness for sappy romance. He knew she had a sweet tooth, which he always satisfied when they were together, by serving her some dessert he had the kitchen prepare specifically. After Janus, he knew she liked the beach and the water. He knew how much the whispers of disgust of other people could hit her, so he always showered her with compliments. He knew which spots he should kiss to make her coo. How to tease and fluster her. How to make her unleash—to her shame—a bevy of sounds from her perfect lips. After their joined experience in Commorragh, he even learned the brushes and whorls of her colours, more beautiful than anything his eyes have witnessed. His happiness was only proportional to hers, they moved in tandem.
Likewise, she knew him.
Canny, insightful, intelligent, brilliant. These qualities she possessed from birth. Her ‘education’ aboard his ship only magnified these exemplary traits. He’d seen her become a confident young woman. Leave her cage, face the storm. She struggled, fell, doubted herself at every turn, disoriented little bird out of the gilded cage. But he was there to lend a hand.
He’d fallen in love with her at first sight, like a Schola cadet. The thief meets the princess. And eventually, she returned his feelings. By far, the happiest moments of his life were spent with her. Nothing was beyond them. Arguing about literature, philosophy, politics, till the wee hours. Taking leisurely walks to places that strike their fancy, or lazing in each other’s company. Sowing mischief and playing pranks was also a part of this—their respective childhoods didn’t allow for this type of enjoyment, so they had catching up to do. There was no facet of life he didn’t want to explore, share and deepen with her, and only her. To think he’d received candidatures for potential spouses!
He was certain she’d never seen him like this. Since they met, his only brief episode had been shortly after Commorragh, and she’d already managed to control her powers by then. The last thing he wanted now was for her to worry. Or worse, having to explain this to her.
He started picking up the papers he’d scattered about, attempting to regain his composure.
“Thank you, Voxmaster. Make sure we are not interrupted.”
“Understood, Lord-Captain.”
He was in the middle of rearranging the offending documents, when he heard the hiss of the secret passageway in between his bedchamber and the bath.
He heard the soft ruffle of her dress, the pitter-patter of her feet, and she was announced by that familiar fragrance of lavender.
She entered his office and turned to spot him, behind his desk. When she saw him, she smiled that gentle, heart-melting smile. His knees got weak, and despite himself, he returned her smile, her power over him far too strong to even pretend.
He bowed. “My Lady Navigator, did you forget a volume in my quarters again? I’m sure I can help you look for it.”
Blood rushed to her pale cheeks. “No such thing. I just wanted to visit.” She smiled fondly at his teasing.
Caleb left his desk and approached her. She tilted her head—he was barely taller than her, due to being a Voidborn—and he immediately pressed a kiss to her soft, giving lips. She hummed into the kiss, so he took the opportunity to bring his hands up to caress her cheeks, and to drag her closer to him, to his heart, where she belonged. Her lithe body, her soft curves, her heated cheeks, her strong heart, he felt them all. She reciprocated his affection by bringing her own hands to loop around his neck, gently running her lovely claws on his nape. She swooned into the kiss and he fell with her. For a moment, life bled back into him.
Eventually, when the biological imperative of breathing became too much to ignore, she tapped him thrice on his shoulder with her hand. They released their lip lock with a sigh and a string of saliva still tying them, each other’s warm puffs of breath mingling in the interstice. She appeared a bit dazed, a strong blush on her cheeks (he loved the fact he could still make her lose herself), and she wobbled a bit on the spot.
“I wonder if I’ll ever be used to your affection,” she whispered in an airy voice.
He grinned. “I hope not, it would mean I’m not doing a good job.”
She lightly tapped him upside the head and linked their arms together. She glanced at the table, noting a certain state of untidiness, uncommon to Caleb’s usual meticulousness.
“Am I interrupting your work?” she asked, returning her ruby eyes to his.
“No, no, those are just…reports. You know, stuff.” He inwardly cringed at his choice of terms, knowing she would catch on.
“Ah, I see. ‘Stuff’” she repeated.
“Yep. The life of a Rogue Trader isn’t all about adventure; there’s also paperwork.”
“And what’s this paperwork about, may I enquire?”
“Oh, you know. Uhm…this…is…about…,” he fumbled spectacularly, his eloquence and mental alacrity cast to the Warp. She raised a pale eyebrow, giving her that image of enticing sternness he usually loved so much.
“Stuff?” she proposed, delivering a critical blow.
He pursed his lips, deciding his tongue had failed him enough today, and nodded his head. She chose not to comment on the obvious and took a subtler route.
“I can see Abelard’s signature on at least one those pages. You are usually assiduous when he hands you his work, as you hate to waste both of your times.”
Caleb scoffed, “So, I’m slacking off a little. Can’t blame me for not ploughing through all this stuff; I’m allowed to relax for a spell. Besides, it’s really their fault for being dull as ditchwater reading materials. Have you seen the style? Excruciatingly drab.”
“This coming from the man who, once, discussed at length the workings of the ship’s venting system with lower-level rabble?”
“That wasn’t boring,” he disputed. “I grew up in the bowels of a ship, so I’m interested in this one’s skeleton.”
She hummed. “Correct but I know you are also conscientious about your duties, no matter the burden to you. So what changed now?”
He saw each of his escape routes be walled off. In a situation like this, there was only one solution. Armour himself and shrug it off. So, he shrugged.
The Navigator clicked her tongue, clearly displeased with his defensive reflex.
“Perhaps you are confusing boredom with exhaustion?” she diplomatically suggested.
He blew out a dismissive breath. “I’ll have you know, I am at the peak of my abilities. I can prove it in the bedroom right now, if you want.” He grinned and try to pull her closer, but she disentangled herself out of his grasp. She stepped back and put her hands on her hips.
“I will not be distracted or deterred so easily, Caleb von Valancius.”
His heart twinged, her words slapping him in the face. He grinded his tongue between his front teeth.
Look at how you treat a woman you claim you love. Unworthy. Miserable. Empty.
Insidious whispers, far more sinister and potent than any threats or promises from daemons, slithered unbidden in his mind. The dark pall clouded him again. And with it, came the irritation.
“Why are you here, Cass?” He could see the minefield of words she’d laid out, to coax him to this state. He felt like an exposed nerve, frayed, sensitive, stinging.
“I came here to see you. Everyone has noticed you are not doing well. Abelard himself told me that you were practically fuming for the past days, finding excuses to slip from the deck.”
He bristled at her revelations. Did his entire crew think him weak? Was he weak, to be spotted so easily? Well, he was never strong to begin with.
“Did Abelard put you up to this?” he snarled. Cornered animals are more vicious.
She narrowed her eyes, unafraid at his incensed expression and harsh tone of voice. “If you must know, it was Kibellah that proposed this. But I was already planning on paying you a visit, since I happen to not be blind.”
“Kibellah forgets herself,” he threatened in a mutter. Terrible wrath coursed through his veins, lighting him afire, stoking an inferno of cruelty he would enact upon his gossiping officers. For taking advantage of his kindness. They. Would. Learn.
“And do I forget myself, Caleb?” she retorted in a quiet voice.
He looked up immediately, his burning anger replaced by slimy shame, clogging up his throat.
“No. Never. I didn’t mean to imply that, ever.” These words flashed, barely enough breath in his throat to properly express them, to plead forgiveness, to scrub the shame and failure.
She took a deep inspiration. “Everyone is worried about you. I am worried about you.” His heart lurched at that. That was the last thing he wanted. “Talk to me. Please.”
He couldn’t tell her, couldn’t explain it to her. Couldn’t even explain it to himself, first of all. She’d think him weak, unstable. Perhaps she’d finally see the truth: he was a hollow wretch, a miserable pit of hopelessness and failure, whose good deeds only ever served to salve his unknown soul.
“It’s fine, Cass. There’s nothing wrong,” he lamely tried.
She outright scowled now, and her scorn was truly something to behold.
“That’s evidently not true. There’s something that’s been bothering you and you don’t want anyone to know.”
“It’ll go away on its own soon.”
“Oh, so there is something after all? What happened to ‘nothing wrong, Cass’?”
“Damn it, Cass!” he snapped.
And then, he almost collapsed to the floor. He was mortified. He lashed out. He always promised he wouldn’t do that to her, that he wouldn’t be like his parents.
If the shame before had been slimy, this one was outright frigid. It jammed his blood in his veins, quieted the rush of it in his ears, and he hoped the window would explode, so the vacuum of space would sweep him away, like he deserved. He kept his eyes on his feet. He couldn’t look at her. Doubtless, her mouth would be open in disappointment and shock. Her brows would be knit in confusion and shame. And her ruby eyes, where brilliance and gentility sparkled so often, would instead shine with tears of chagrin and hurt. Because of him.
“Caleb.” Her voice was hurt but steady.
He wouldn’t look up.
“Caleb, look at me.”
He kept his eyes trained to the floor, hoping to dig himself into a hole.
“Please. Caleb.”
Her soft pleading bypassed his firewall of self-loathing. It was the power she held over him, complete and absolute. He finally looked up.
He only saw a fraction of the suffering he imagined he would see, but it was enough to shatter his heart. He didn’t feel empty now. He felt like shit.
She approached him, slowly and cautiously. She clasped her hands in his and rubbed the back of his hands with her thumbs. She ducked her head, to make sure he couldn’t hide his gaze on the floor again.
“Can we talk? In your bedroom?”
She didn’t wait for an answer and lead him by the hands, to his bedchamber.
She kicked off her heeled shoes (a strange spectacle from one who holds good manners paramount) and pulled him to the centre of the bed, both of them sitting cross-legged.
She looked at him expectantly, but he didn’t know what to say, what to do. Any explanation he could invent fell short, crumbling like sand, incapable of encompassing the sum of this.
So, she decided to start.
“I know you, Caleb. I’ve known you and I know you and I will know you. You can see through all my turmoil, but I can do so as well.”
She leaned forwards and rubbed his cheeks.
“You cannot see yourself. So, you cannot see the beautiful palette of colours you are.
“A canvas dominated by grey, intelligent, careful, mature and wise. I see it every time you ponder on a subject, attempting to disassemble it, analyse it, comprehend it.
“That canvas of grey is then streaked with stabs of orange-like fire, when something challenges you, when you want to deepen your interest in something. It’s what made Pasqal…erm, Armanat respect you. You thrive for the search, for the complexity, adding red to your orange when your views must be defended. It is something everyone admires about you. Your dauntless spirit. Yrliet would not have accepted to be part of your retinue without it.
“The contours of blue of your soul soften the tableau. Your kindness, your empathy, your persistence at helping people—no matter what those who disagree say—is plainly visible for all to see. When people hear the name von Valancius, they think of hope. They think of altruism. They think of you. I think of you. When I loathed myself, when I thought myself appalling, the blue of your soul refused to let me go.”
Cassia’s cheeks turned red again but she continues.
“And then there is the mist of red, when you look at me. Fiery, passionate, lustful.
“There are the golden flecks, when we are together. Your wonder, your elation, your happiness, your peace.
“And finally, the pink hue that appears every time you see me, every time you think of me. So bright and vast, it could shame even the stars. Bright, bold, warm, exclusive, intense, pure, adoring, worshiping, smitten. I swear, it’s as if you fall in love with me all over again, every time you see me!”
She laughs and he does too, compelled by her sheer magnificence.
But then, she quiets down and grows serious once again. She grips his hands harder and looks him straight in the eyes, and he can’t look away, but he knows he won’t like what he hears next.
“Yours is a beautiful portrait, Caleb. Enriched and enriching, for all those who meet you. But there is something that’s always lurked behind that portrait. Something buried, smothered, all efforts spent to make if forgotten. But it’s impossible. It’s always just behind. The sea of black.”
There it is.
Caleb gulps down and attempts to clear his throat.
“You knew?” he croaks.
A warm look of compassion and understanding shimmers in Cassia’s eyes.
“I didn’t see at first. You’ve gone to great lengths to camouflage it. I lacked the grip on my powers that I have now. But something always felt…ominous. But then, I learned how to see you. Without my third eye. And that’s when I noticed the creeping, inky claw marks on your soul. Can you tell me about it?”
How? Was there any way out? Any way to make her understand? Any way to make him understand?
He swallowed audibly, feeling tremors travel through him again.
“I should. I owe you this much.”
He breathe in. Then breathed out.
“I don’t know when it started. Exactly. Or what it is. But whenever I feel it…it’s like there’s nothing. I feel miserable and I don’t know why. Not sad, per se. Just…nothing. Or maybe numb to the world. I can’t pinpoint it, it’s everywhere and nowhere. Joy and interest flees from me. I get tired just…I don’t know. I have trouble sleeping. And everything bugs me the wrong way. Especially me. I…my thoughts become more…violent, almost. For nothing, when it shouldn’t. And I feel like the most miserable wretch in the galaxy. I can hide it. I’m good at it, no one ever noticed it before. I guess I got sloppy, or that hiding it amidst an entire crew of people who see me every day, is more difficult than before. And now…”—he stopped to blink back tears— “Now, I lashed out at you. For trying to help. For caring for me. And I hate myself for it.”
He took a shuddering breath, his face obscure by his black locks of hair. He was startled when she gently put the tip of her fingers under his chin and lifted it. Her eyes shone with determination, her Navigator eye almost glowing.
“Do not give in to the darkness. Do not listen to the hissing voices in your head. What you feel now, you will not always feel. When you sense the tide about to sweep you away, remember who you are. Remember what you’ve done. Remember that there are people for whom you mean so much. Remember me, and my undying love for you. I want you near me, Caleb, because I love your presence. You make me happy. Happy to know you. Happy to be a mutant. Happy to be alive. You and no one else. And you don’t have to hide it from me anymore. You don’t have to bear it alone from now on. I’ll be there.”
The Lord-Captain shook, tears pooling in his eyes. He felt a swell of emotions for this woman. For himself.
“You’ve comforted me so many times. You dried so many of my tears. Now, allow me. I owe you this much.”
She left her hand at the back of his head and, gently, dragged it towards her. He landed his forehead on her shoulder, breathing in her perfume. His fat tears slowly leaked from his eyes, onto her. Staining her shoulder, her chest, her legs. Silent hiccups and sobs overwhelmed him. She bore it all with indefatigable patience and adoration and love. She gently grazed his scalp with her claws. Rubbed soothing circles in his back.
Finally, he gasped out the last of his turmoil and looked at her.
“I love you. You’re everything to me, Cassia.”
She beamed a radiant smile, her own eyes now glossy with tears.
“Likewise, Caleb.”
They kissed, tasting love and anguish on each other. Tasted like saltwater.
When they broke apart, she declared, “Let’s go to sleep.”
“But…what about the work?”
“There’s always another time. Now, think about yourself.”
She coaxed him below the covers. They tangled their legs, laced their hands. Vivid breaths and touching chests. Two beings sharing one heart.
“Cass? Thanks for being here for me.”
She hummed and smiled brightly, more dazzling than a supernova.
“I wanted to lend a hand.”
Caleb von Valancius sighed. And then fell asleep.