He does indeed notice, though that helm shifts only a little. His grip far from faltering as he holds her there at the edge of the forest, armor smelling of staler sweat.
The perfume he would trade for no other; a testament to their entanglement.
“What I desire is to keep this hidden no longer.”
Perhaps he does still dwell on Beth’s own wording. The accusation that he craved discretion out of shame.
She's sure Gabranth can feel her go stiff. It takes a moment to make up her mind, though fear still lingers. "Alright," she says, making motions that she'd like to be let down. "No more secrets. I'm not embarrassed of you, love, I never have been."
Something about the tail end of her promise stings. A nail scratching at his skin beneath the armor, the unintended catch of teeth against his tongue— that’s all he can compare it to. Discomfort. He had never been ashamed of her, but to guard oneself, and to keep such truths locked away....
How narrow is the difference?
Her heels touch the earth, he lets her down gently, minding the scuff of her broken arm across his armor and all its jutting contours.
“Tell her for me. The girl.” He mutters low, like an animal sinking its head in self-abnegation.
“She is free to speak as she cares to. I’ll hound her for it no longer.”
Jone suspects her bandage needs changing. What was once a blotted brown has blossomed red. She grimaces slightly. The mages will fix it properly tomorrow, when they're not worrying about nobles and patrons.
"Beth, you mean?" Jone sidles closer to Gabranth, as close as she can get without being underfoot. "Your obsession with that girl, I don't understand. But I'll tell her."
sends u these tags and lowers myself into my fuckin grave
“It is not— ” obstinance blooms, his exhale sharp as the edge of his sword.
His jaw locks, when he feels slighted. Denied. And Jone is right: ever since that night in the maze, it has been locked still— though now he acts without resentment, there is no letting go. Resolution, unforced, might yet ease that trouble.
But Gabranth has not managed resolution with his own blood and kin. So.
“Thank you.” The heaviness of his footing is precise enough that he doesn’t trample Jone as they stride ever closer to Kirkwall, arm extended in faint offering.
Only after a beat longer does he add, “Hold your head high, lest I tip it for you.”
Jone, unsure how else to properly react, sticks her tongue out at him. But she takes his arm and they walk together through the streets, an odd pair; one proud, one broken.
She allows no anxiety to show on her face, a thing more potent than shame.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
The perfume he would trade for no other; a testament to their entanglement.
“What I desire is to keep this hidden no longer.”
Perhaps he does still dwell on Beth’s own wording. The accusation that he craved discretion out of shame.
no subject
no subject
How narrow is the difference?
Her heels touch the earth, he lets her down gently, minding the scuff of her broken arm across his armor and all its jutting contours.
“Tell her for me. The girl.” He mutters low, like an animal sinking its head in self-abnegation.
“She is free to speak as she cares to. I’ll hound her for it no longer.”
no subject
"Beth, you mean?" Jone sidles closer to Gabranth, as close as she can get without being underfoot. "Your obsession with that girl, I don't understand. But I'll tell her."
sends u these tags and lowers myself into my fuckin grave
His jaw locks, when he feels slighted. Denied. And Jone is right: ever since that night in the maze, it has been locked still— though now he acts without resentment, there is no letting go. Resolution, unforced, might yet ease that trouble.
But Gabranth has not managed resolution with his own blood and kin. So.
“Thank you.” The heaviness of his footing is precise enough that he doesn’t trample Jone as they stride ever closer to Kirkwall, arm extended in faint offering.
Only after a beat longer does he add, “Hold your head high, lest I tip it for you.”
It is not, in any sense, an acute demand.
gets shovel.
She allows no anxiety to show on her face, a thing more potent than shame.