[ The news comes months into her time at the Hideaway, when she's settled in and found her place, almost as if she is being haunted by a past she cannot outrun.
When she had first been found and freed, she had imagined her parents would forget about her, like a tool lost in a house move or a burden misremembered. She had never imagined that they might track her down and attempt to demand her back, or that the people around her would hear whisper of the claim of lost property and band around her as they did.
When she was brought before Clive and told about it, the outrage from some of the people she had come to call something like a friend had been immediate, and intense. Gav had been the most vocal, and Tarja had surprised her by coming to ensure she was alright. All of it had been utterly overwhelming, and days later she still hadn't come to a decision about the best course of action, of how to handle the threat of people with at least a little manpower and coin coming to track her down and either capture or kill her.
Eventually, she had made the choice. She was stronger now, bolder, even if she still felt as if she jumped at shadow and tried to hide from most people. Lauralae found it hard to speak to many people, so spent most of her time with a closer, knit circle - and it's that circle that she relies on to take her out, trusting that she will be safe. That they will not take her away. She has to face this demon, and not allow the unwavering promise of her parents discovering their home and harming them to come to pass, as unlikely as it might be. Clive only grows in fame, and the risk is too large.
She doesn't think either of them expected the slaughter that was waiting for them, blood drenching the grass and bodies littering the clearing where they had made camp.
For a long, long moment, all Lauralae is capable of is standing there, looking at the familiar faces sorched and harmed with blade and flame both. She blinks between them and the nearby river, tinged pink, and she feels something tight grip her chest - something that makes her hands shake as she presses them against her stomach, to try and comfort herself. It's too much, it's all too much, and she can feel how it thrums through her like an agonising whip.
Why is she so upset, when this is what she had wanted?
Unable to move, all she does is stand and stare, forgetting to breathe. ]
Clive has been given the context for this. It's been the talk of the Hideaway for weeks now, traded first in whispers behind hands until the all of them had gathered enough confidence to rally in raised voices and with clenched fists around the shape of the young woman that they've come to accept, idiosyncrasies and all.
But there was a strange grief surrounding the ceremony; the same tension-taut solidarity that ripples over faces every time Clive mentions Hugo Kupka in passing (not often), the storm of conflict that comes with every act of vengeance or reckoning. Clive has always known that any confrontation of the past is exactly that: a confrontation, and one that tends not to be pretty or easy once it stumbles into their path, teeth bared and eyes all red.
And so it is, that Lauralae's demon comes to them in the night. And so it is, that she finds herself stained in their aftermath.
It makes Clive think of... well, himself. He sees Wyvern beside Lauralae, hands also stained to the elbow in blood, eyes hollow and unfeeling in the middle of all this death.
A phantom that needs to stay far, far away from a woman who deserves far, far better. Clive approaches on purposefully-loud feet, greaves rattling softly with each step. ]
Lauralae. [ Invictus rests along his spine; it keeps him upright as he reaches one gloved hand to settle against the small of her back ] Are you hurt?
She is no stranger to death. It is not unfamiliar to her, in the world she belongs to, with conquest and war always on the horizon, at the heels of all those who rule. She has felt it herself, with flames burning from her fingertips and the sound of suffering in her ears, at the beck and call of parents who had never loved her enough, never wanted her enough. She had felt less like a girl and more like a weapon for most of her life, and all that she had to fuel her was the desire for vengeance.
That is gone, now, and there is nothing she can do. The blood is right there, and she cannot stop staring at it, cannot drag her eyes away from the broken bodies. Was it bandits? Was it soldiers? Was it intentional or an accident, a punishment for folk who had dared to lose their Branded child? Those are questions she will likely never know the answer to, and she has to find a way to live with that.
Isn't she living with enough already?
The sound of Clive behind her startles her, even with how obvious he had made his steps, and she breathes out a soft noise as she turns her gaze to him. She hadn't realised she was crying, but the blurry outline of him at her side makes that clear, so she's quick to wipe her face and try to breathe in and out, to force herself to remain calm and steady on shaky legs.
Careful, she leans back into his touch, needing the comfort of him, to ground her. To keep her afloat. ]
[ There's time enough, later, to turn corpses over and find colors and emblems that might make sense of the who-s and why-s. It's likely that Gav will be the one to do it, with his mile-wide heart and his too-keen nose, and their scout will pull Clive aside for a drink that will turn into five, until he's slurring and runny-nosed about how it's so bleedin' unfair, all of it.
Clive wishes that he knew how to tell Lauralae that she is loved; so very much so.
And god, his heart rattles in his chest when he notes the wetness of her cheeks and how she hastily tries to fix it, smearing tears and blood along her face in the process. She's no less lovely for the way she nearly folds to her emotions, but that, too, seems a cruel thing to say in the wreckage of all this tragedy－ whoever wants to hear that they look beautiful when they break?
So Clive lists closer, hand traveling from Lauralae's back to her hip, fingers curled to keep her pressed against his side. Bolstering, holding, with his chin almost resting on the crown of her head. ]
'Fine' isn't the word I would have chosen.
[ His breath flutters against her dark hair. There's an attempt, here, to pivot on his heels, to turn them both away from the worst of the carnage, and towards the direction of the dispassionate river, carrying rivulets of red away, away from them both. ]
...Come on. [ A low whisper, gentle. ] Let's sit for a while.
[ It seems so strange to accept comfort from him when she would have celebrated this otherwise, so she thinks.
Had her intention, coming here, not been for the purpose of warning off her family, of showing how strong she had become, of ensuring the protection of those who loved and chose her? Was she not marching here with the determination to use her voice and expel them from their mission, to send them back from where they came, the threat of violence on her heels? Why does she mourn their deaths when it's all she had hoped for the entire time she had been at Clive's side, a member of his Hideaway, finally at home?
She can feel his hand over her, drawing her close, and she seeks comfort in him before she realises she is doing it. Lauralae turns to Clive as though he's the sun, and she is nothing more than a flower seeking his warmth, to let her unfold and unburden herself. She basks in the knowledge that he is here, for whatever that might mean, and that it does ease some of the wounds on her heart. She might not show it well, but she appreciates it all the same.
Clive is a good man, she thinks, worthy of all the best things in the world. It doesn't dawn on her why that makes her feel so sharply uncomfortable.
Nodding her head, she permits him to guide her. ]
It is the best word I have.
[ They turn away and walk, and she lets him, feeling cold and adrift.
What will the others say, when they hear? Will they be relieved? Will they celebrate their safety while she feels herself in a strange limbo, mourning and not all at the same time?
[ It's an unhappy walk from the carnage to the water. Bloodstained grass makes way for loose soil, and the litany of things that aren't yet spoken drift away from them both, carried on ambient sounds of the flowing river.
This is what razing one's past looks like: a whole lot of nothing. Just empty, vacuous space. The dead no longer have answers for the living, and the living can no longer expect the truth from the dead.
The rest is silence, blistering and absolute. Clive knows how it feels to hold his ears against it, and to swallow the nausea that comes from the pounding sound of his own pulse－ he keeps Lauralae close and tucked against his side, angling her so that, if she'd like, she can press her face to his chest and hear his heartbeat instead, slow and steady despite this shared grief. ]
I'll be right here with you.
[ His answer to where he'll take her. Here, in the unbearable present. He only loosens his grip when he reaches to unclip his cape from his pauldron, letting the fabric fall onto soft ground; he guides Lauralae down to settle with him, legs splayed towards the burble of the water as he hefts her half onto his knees, a thing for her to lean on. ]
Tell me plainly. [ She smells like the sting of copper-blood, and so must he. Still, it's not a crime to try being gentle, even after so much violence. His voice is low, soft. ] What hurts?
[ Yes, he knows she said that she isn't. He asks anyway. ]
Lauralae has felt loss before, of course. She had lost friends, some distant family, things that meant a great deal to her, but she had been numb to it all then. All of her feelings had been so deeply buried that she hadn’t ever allowed herself to wallow, to sink into it at all; it had felt like weakness. Closing herself off to the world was a kind of protection that had been necessary, otherwise she would have sunk.
Living at the Hideaway, befriending others, learning to be happy and at peace had opened her up to all these strange and unfamiliar feelings. For the first time in years, she’d let herself overflow with emotion, let herself bask in the warmth of it. She knows a great deal of it is due to Clive himself, his patience and kindness and warmth, and even now he stands with her, supports her, guides her through the open maw of feeling so much that it burns her.
Slowly, she sinks into him. Slowly, she leans in to listen to the pulse of his heart, and even slower comes her own breathing, relaxing from the intense high of loss. There’s still so much coppery blood around them, still so much death, but with his warmth and his scent as a cocoon she feels anchored. No one can harm her while he is at her side, and she believes in that. Months in, and her trust in Clive is set and secure, unshakable.
This cements her faith.
Lifting her head, she looks at him, hand rising to grip at the front of his armour, to tangle in the fabric she finds. She needs this, she thinks. She needs what he gives her, and that’s strength. ]
My heart. [ It’s a soft confession. It burns in her eyes. And then, absently - ] My hands. It’s… Strange. They’re not harmed, and yet…
[ A phantom ache, a ghost of suffering long removed from her life - a reminder of what she had been forced to live with, once upon a time. ]
[ Together, they're fire and brimstone, ozone and copper. Two beasts out of hell, tucked against each other in the dim. Clive remembers their first encounter, remembers sitting five handspans away from Lauralae and wondering if even that was far too close for her comfort; they've come a long way since then, even if the new, novel proximity is a consequence of something he doesn't wish on anyone.
Her heart hurts, she says. Clive thinks of the trust that she must have in him, now, that she can place that honesty in his hands, and the weight of it keeps him anchored. A reciprocal cementing of his own faith, his own resolve.
He doesn't want to fail her.
So he breathes, and meets the need in her eyes with a request of his own. His brows slant in empathy, but his lips curl up in vague, perhaps misplaced affection. Every part of him wants to be here with her, to listen and to know; the mention of her hands has him lifting his own, metal clinking as he divests himself of gauntlets and gloves to lay his palms and fingers bare.
Once that's done: ] Can I see them? [ As he shows her his calluses, offers his open-palmed touch. ] Your hands.
[ He knows what this entails, and what she fears. ]
[ The time the two have them have spent getting to know one another is obvious in the way they interact, and the trust that has developed in its wake is there. Lauralae isn't necessarily comfortable making it obvious to anyone else, but she thinks there's a thread of understanding through a lot of people in the Hideaway at the moment; perhaps they can see the way that she responds to Clive, and how different it is from how she is with other people.
Clive is the one who broached her, gave her time and patience. He is the one who put the effort in, the work in, to be kind, to be gentle, to be soft and willing to allow her to approach like the wild animal she thought she was. Even now, lost in the marsh of her own grief, he is gentle, encouraging a sweeter side out of her that she doesn't think that she's worthy of; there was no reason to believe in it until now. When he reaches for her, she wants to reach back, to trust in what he gives her.
What she wants is to, somehow, feel as if she is worthy of this. That she has earned this. That was Clive gives her is permissible. She doesn't know how to do that.
Dark eyes watch as he bares himself, strips down to the skin of his palms, and she feels something else ache inside of her. She doesn't know what to say, ever so briefly, before her mouth opens and she swallows.
It's hard, but who else in the world could she trust? Her gloves are dark and damp now, from blood and tears, so she ought to remove them. It doesn't make it any easier.
Lauralae's gaze doesn't falter from Clive's as she peels the gloves off her arms, as if she's afraid to bare herself in that way to him. They're pulled off and away, dropped aside, and she can feel the strangeness of it, being curled up against him but having the air on his skin. Her fingers flex, twitchy, buglike movements, and she squeezes her eyes shut, feeling a knot in her stomach.
It's not as if they're that bad. They're burned, marked along the skin and marred, with edges of blackness where the magic has focussed itself. They're not a pretty sight, no matter what, and she can barely lift them to let Clive take her hand in his own. ]
[ Forged in fire and steel. Clive waits for Lauralae to make her deliberation, to decide whether she wants to bare this last part of her that she'd hidden under fabric and pain; when the layer finally starts to peel, he leans into her side and watches that piece of the puzzle fall into place, blackened skin and scars and all.
Not pretty, no, but they needn't be. There's history in her hands that Clive is grateful to see, not dissimilar to the gnarled map of discolored skin cutting across his own face from cheek to neck. A mark of strife, earned through hardship. Life and death, trial and survival.
She's still beautiful. Clive shakes his head when she speaks to hiding again. ]
They're a part of you.
[ It sounds a little like please. Low and plaintive, in the tradition of him whispering when he wants to be heard. That strange idiosyncrasy at play, even now.
Fingertips touch along the back of her hand. He recalls what she's told him about touch inflicting pain, and while he anticipates it, waits for it―
―the brush of skin against skin feels like a controlled burn. Her fire, his fire, sparking without setting anything ablaze; like a path of light mapped by his fingers along her knuckles, a trail of aether and something ancient, primordial. Ifrit rumbles happily in his chest, and he flares hotter for it.
Ah, he breathes, and moves to curl his grip around her wrist. ]
[ As soon as his eyes land on her skin, the urge to pull away and hide herself overtakes her. She wants to burrow herself aside and tug the gloves back on, to do something to protect herself from his deep, curious gaze - the way that Clive always looks at her, the way he always seems to see into the core of her. He has never flinched, never turned away, but the quiet, frightened part of her heart still expects it.
Perhaps that is unkind of her, but she cannot help herself.
Her fingers twitch when he touches her, jerking and moving like a child poking a caterpillar, lurching away in case it causes him pain. She expects it herself, that familiar burning, horrifying feeling, the pain and hurt that had her parents whispering monster in her ear. Her eyes close, tight and hard and aching, until... It doesn't come, the surge of heat and burn that she is so accustomed to.
It feels warm, yes, and hot, like her fingers are seeking out the heat of a fire, but it is far, far less painful than she could have ever dared dream.
Eyes widening, she turns her gaze back to Clive, expression wide-eyed and confused. ]
[ Clive has no reference for what this should feel like, and thus, this is his baseline. This not-unpleasant flare, this flicker and warmth. Like, yes, a bite that isn't quite hard enough to break skin; the promise of teeth, scouring like a too-rough kiss.
It makes Clive shiver despite the heat of it. Where Lauralae projects wide-eyed confusion, Clive reciprocates with wide-eyed fascination: his grip slides from her wrist and downwards, fingers unfurled to let the tips of them trail down and over the thin skin stretched over her pulsepoint and down to her palm.
Should they be negotiating more? Is he meant to be more careful? But nothing hurts, and so he tests her boundaries just a little more, winding an index around an index. ]
Is it painful for you?
[ There's still the possibility that Lauralae is bearing the brunt of the pain, and Ifrit is absorbing most of his.
(He can feel his aether pulse against hers. Not repelling, but acclimating. Resonating.) ]
This is an ache she can manage, one that might be worth the gentle intimacy of being closer to Clive and enjoying his company, his kindness, the way that he looks at her. When their fingers intertwine with one another, she almost trembles, expecting a burst of hurt and pain that she can barely prepare herself for, but all that comes is... A tingle, like someone poking at the skin of a bruise.
It feels strange, not just because this is the first time in years that anyone has touched her fingers, her hands, her skin here, but because it's so absent of pain and fire that she feels as if she's breathing for the first time after being submerged in water. It's hard to even begin to put into words all the things that are rolling through her mind, but when she lifts her head to look at Clive properly, her awe is probably obvious.
Slowly, she shakes her head. ]
It aches, but it is not...
[ Something knots in her stomach, and she turns their hands, to press her smaller fingers between his larger one. ]
[ From that tentative curl, their hands shift and splay against each other until they're palm-to-palm, burns to calluses and skin to skin. Clive hovers like that for a moment, on the needlepoint of anticipation, caught between chasing or preserving this perfect equilibrium that they've managed－
－until he decides to break that tension and lace their fingers, one by one. He watches her as he does it, her cheeks still tear-streaked, eyes still red-rimmed. The feeling of that touch slithers up his arm, sparks like static against the nape of his neck. It almost feels good, that kick of recognition along with the jolt.
His heart feels too full in his chest; thunderous, it hits against his ribcage in a pleasant staccato. ]
...That's one less hurt for you to shoulder, then.
[ A murmur, less pleased than relieved. This changes nothing about the blood on them and the death surrounding them, but it's a point of contact that Clive can give that says I'm here, I've got you. He closes his eyes, breathes in, and lifts their linked hands to brush his lips against the rise and dip of Lauralae's knuckles. ]
[ There's a kind of painful, ricocheting intimacy that is stunning her into silence, not able to process what is happening to her. The more she touches Clive, the more she expects to dissolve into pain, to end up wincing, or weeping, or something else - to feel herself break into a dozen little pieces. None of that happens, as if she had made her power and her weaknesses up in her head, masquerading as someone special when she is no different from any other Branded.
It's almost impossible to drag her eyes away from where their fingers touch, to the way his hands, so much larger than her own, hold her so gently. The awe is obvious beneath the blood and tears and lingering grief, an inability to hide just how affected she is by the way that he touches her. It's such a simple thing, but it almost breaks her heart to experience it all over again.
Swallowing, she almost pulls back when he speaks, afraid that it'll be a scolding, but...
In the truest fashion of this man, he remains gentle. ]
You...
[ There are no words.
Instead, there is his lips on her skin. There is the rush of something hot to her face, girlish and soft with her embarrassment, with how overwhelmed she is, and a few moments where she doesn't seem able to move. Her fingers twitch, wanting to touch his skin - his cheek, jaw, neck, anything before her, and she has to fumble for words. ]
[ Is he gentle? He poises and hovers until Lauralae delivers her verdict, with their fingers still tangled and the edges of her dark, blackened skin pressed to his lips. He hasn't always thought himself capable of this－ still doesn't, sometimes, when he stands alone with the corpses he occasionally leaves in his wake, broken and sword-torn and charred. A demon, just like the Eikon he houses in his chest. Simmering and seething.
But he wants to offer Lauralae his truth, so he does. With his breath still dancing against her bared hand, with this new distance bridged and filled. Her vulnerability deserves something reciprocal, and so, Clive keeps his voice steady. ]
I want to be. For you.
[ Because the world so often requires something else from him: brimstone and fire, ozone and ash. Cid the Outlaw, torchbearer and successor. A shield, a sword, a Dominant. None of these things are particularly known to have a gentle touch, nor expected to have one, and yet. It's Lauralae with her knife-sharp eyes and the strength of her bite who makes Clive believe that he can hold and keep and protect; it's her wariness that makes him want better, and her grief that makes him want happiness.
There's so much more in this world than pain. If he can make Lauralae believe that, even for a breath of a second, he can feel joy. ]
―If you want it, after everything you've seen.
[ An addendum, as he lifts their shared grip and presses her knuckles to his forehead this time, as if in prayer. Because this means nothing if she doesn't want it. ]
The idea of having warmth, tenderness, any kind of sweetness directed at her is such a strange and odd thing that she can't even begin to understand it. Even with Clive in front of her, showing her all of this kindness time and time again, holding her with blood on her hands and tears in her eyes, she questions herself. In what way had she earned this? In what way could she deserve what is in her hands now, from someone who carries so much on his shoulders and deserves so much more than she is?
Lauralae is barely beginning to recognise herself as a person again, as having feelings, and wants, and desires. Finding the part of herself that yearns, that desires, that craves? It has been a long journey, a struggle, and when she lifts her gaze to look at Clive, all she can think is yes. Oh, the longing inside of her is centred upon him, and how could it be anywhere else?
When he holds her, when he touches her? The safety she feels cannot be second-guessed, cannot be ignored. He, and no other, has inspired this in her, and the burning in her heart makes her want to demand that he gives her more. If she thinks about what that 'more' is then she loses sight of it, unsure of herself, but the want remains.
Slowly, she leans ever so much closer, comfortable in his lap, her fingers turning to cup his cheek, the bristle of his beard and the burning hot pressure of his skin against her own. ]
I want all that you have. The bright flame and the lowest ember. All the parts that you hide, and all that the world sees. I want you, Clive.
[ Fingers sift along his face, over the brand-turned-scar, leaving a trail of raw energy that pulls a warm sigh from him, breath like mist over Lauralae's palm. It should hurt, instinct says, but the furnace inside him swallows her aether whole, hungry and eager, and turns it into fuel for his heart to beat stronger in the cage of his chest.
Instead of turning away, he turns into the touch. Rests, and shutters blue eyes; like this, he must resemble his hound, nesting into a particularly beloved palm. Like the night they'd first spoken to each other under the one-eyed moon, Torgal and treats and traded half-secrets.
He trusts her. He wants her to trust him. A wish long overdue for the both of them, maybe. ]
You're always allowed to want, Lauralae.
[ The content of her wanting is a different story－ him, of all things. Once-kinslayer, who left an entire duchy in rubbles; once-killer, with blood up to his elbows. But maybe they share those sins in spades too, the helplessness and the clawing and biting to maintain a sliver of themselves that could remain unsullied by fate.
His eyes open, and he turns his head to kiss Lauralae's palm, her still-persisting lifeline bisecting her burnt skin. ]
[ Clive says it as though it is so simple, so easy, and it's beyond anything she has let herself think or have before now. He looks at her as if she is precious, offers her all the things she could want and need, leaves it in her hands for her to grasp and hold, and she doesn't quite know how to deal with it. Her instinctive urge is to pull away and hide, to throw herself aside and tell him to look elsewhere for this, but at the same time...
Her longing is so profound, and she can't hide how she feels about him now that they're so close. She has confessed to her desire for him, to her wish to take and be greedy, to sink her teeth into him and not let go, dangerous with desire. Her eyes glint, and she breathes out, shuddering as her hair falls over her face. The shyness overcomes her, but - it's also for fear of him seeing just how needy she suddenly feels.
When he speaks, he makes it sound simple. That she can just have this. Have him. As if she is at all worthy.
The leader of their organisation, strong, powerful, burning with his magic and blessing, towering over her in brawn and brightness both. Lauralae wants him so desperately it could make her feel sick, and while denying him might be easy - it isn't what she wants.
He is what she wants.
Nodding her head, she breathes out. ]
You can want anything. Everything. I want to give it to you.
[ Leaning closer, she pushes up on her knees, to meet him. ]
Tell me what you would beg of me, and I will offer it all. I want you, Clive, and for you to want me, too.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
emotional journey...
When she had first been found and freed, she had imagined her parents would forget about her, like a tool lost in a house move or a burden misremembered. She had never imagined that they might track her down and attempt to demand her back, or that the people around her would hear whisper of the claim of lost property and band around her as they did.
When she was brought before Clive and told about it, the outrage from some of the people she had come to call something like a friend had been immediate, and intense. Gav had been the most vocal, and Tarja had surprised her by coming to ensure she was alright. All of it had been utterly overwhelming, and days later she still hadn't come to a decision about the best course of action, of how to handle the threat of people with at least a little manpower and coin coming to track her down and either capture or kill her.
Eventually, she had made the choice. She was stronger now, bolder, even if she still felt as if she jumped at shadow and tried to hide from most people. Lauralae found it hard to speak to many people, so spent most of her time with a closer, knit circle - and it's that circle that she relies on to take her out, trusting that she will be safe. That they will not take her away. She has to face this demon, and not allow the unwavering promise of her parents discovering their home and harming them to come to pass, as unlikely as it might be. Clive only grows in fame, and the risk is too large.
She doesn't think either of them expected the slaughter that was waiting for them, blood drenching the grass and bodies littering the clearing where they had made camp.
For a long, long moment, all Lauralae is capable of is standing there, looking at the familiar faces sorched and harmed with blade and flame both. She blinks between them and the nearby river, tinged pink, and she feels something tight grip her chest - something that makes her hands shake as she presses them against her stomach, to try and comfort herself. It's too much, it's all too much, and she can feel how it thrums through her like an agonising whip.
Why is she so upset, when this is what she had wanted?
Unable to move, all she does is stand and stare, forgetting to breathe. ]
no subject
Clive has been given the context for this. It's been the talk of the Hideaway for weeks now, traded first in whispers behind hands until the all of them had gathered enough confidence to rally in raised voices and with clenched fists around the shape of the young woman that they've come to accept, idiosyncrasies and all.
But there was a strange grief surrounding the ceremony; the same tension-taut solidarity that ripples over faces every time Clive mentions Hugo Kupka in passing (not often), the storm of conflict that comes with every act of vengeance or reckoning. Clive has always known that any confrontation of the past is exactly that: a confrontation, and one that tends not to be pretty or easy once it stumbles into their path, teeth bared and eyes all red.
And so it is, that Lauralae's demon comes to them in the night. And so it is, that she finds herself stained in their aftermath.
It makes Clive think of... well, himself. He sees Wyvern beside Lauralae, hands also stained to the elbow in blood, eyes hollow and unfeeling in the middle of all this death.
A phantom that needs to stay far, far away from a woman who deserves far, far better. Clive approaches on purposefully-loud feet, greaves rattling softly with each step. ]
Lauralae. [ Invictus rests along his spine; it keeps him upright as he reaches one gloved hand to settle against the small of her back ] Are you hurt?
no subject
She is no stranger to death. It is not unfamiliar to her, in the world she belongs to, with conquest and war always on the horizon, at the heels of all those who rule. She has felt it herself, with flames burning from her fingertips and the sound of suffering in her ears, at the beck and call of parents who had never loved her enough, never wanted her enough. She had felt less like a girl and more like a weapon for most of her life, and all that she had to fuel her was the desire for vengeance.
That is gone, now, and there is nothing she can do. The blood is right there, and she cannot stop staring at it, cannot drag her eyes away from the broken bodies. Was it bandits? Was it soldiers? Was it intentional or an accident, a punishment for folk who had dared to lose their Branded child? Those are questions she will likely never know the answer to, and she has to find a way to live with that.
Isn't she living with enough already?
The sound of Clive behind her startles her, even with how obvious he had made his steps, and she breathes out a soft noise as she turns her gaze to him. She hadn't realised she was crying, but the blurry outline of him at her side makes that clear, so she's quick to wipe her face and try to breathe in and out, to force herself to remain calm and steady on shaky legs.
Careful, she leans back into his touch, needing the comfort of him, to ground her. To keep her afloat. ]
No. I am fine.
no subject
Clive wishes that he knew how to tell Lauralae that she is loved; so very much so.
And god, his heart rattles in his chest when he notes the wetness of her cheeks and how she hastily tries to fix it, smearing tears and blood along her face in the process. She's no less lovely for the way she nearly folds to her emotions, but that, too, seems a cruel thing to say in the wreckage of all this tragedy－ whoever wants to hear that they look beautiful when they break?
So Clive lists closer, hand traveling from Lauralae's back to her hip, fingers curled to keep her pressed against his side. Bolstering, holding, with his chin almost resting on the crown of her head. ]
'Fine' isn't the word I would have chosen.
[ His breath flutters against her dark hair. There's an attempt, here, to pivot on his heels, to turn them both away from the worst of the carnage, and towards the direction of the dispassionate river, carrying rivulets of red away, away from them both. ]
...Come on. [ A low whisper, gentle. ] Let's sit for a while.
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Had her intention, coming here, not been for the purpose of warning off her family, of showing how strong she had become, of ensuring the protection of those who loved and chose her? Was she not marching here with the determination to use her voice and expel them from their mission, to send them back from where they came, the threat of violence on her heels? Why does she mourn their deaths when it's all she had hoped for the entire time she had been at Clive's side, a member of his Hideaway, finally at home?
She can feel his hand over her, drawing her close, and she seeks comfort in him before she realises she is doing it. Lauralae turns to Clive as though he's the sun, and she is nothing more than a flower seeking his warmth, to let her unfold and unburden herself. She basks in the knowledge that he is here, for whatever that might mean, and that it does ease some of the wounds on her heart. She might not show it well, but she appreciates it all the same.
Clive is a good man, she thinks, worthy of all the best things in the world. It doesn't dawn on her why that makes her feel so sharply uncomfortable.
Nodding her head, she permits him to guide her. ]
It is the best word I have.
[ They turn away and walk, and she lets him, feeling cold and adrift.
What will the others say, when they hear? Will they be relieved? Will they celebrate their safety while she feels herself in a strange limbo, mourning and not all at the same time?
Shaking her head, she swallows. ]
I'll go where you take me.
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This is what razing one's past looks like: a whole lot of nothing. Just empty, vacuous space. The dead no longer have answers for the living, and the living can no longer expect the truth from the dead.
The rest is silence, blistering and absolute. Clive knows how it feels to hold his ears against it, and to swallow the nausea that comes from the pounding sound of his own pulse－ he keeps Lauralae close and tucked against his side, angling her so that, if she'd like, she can press her face to his chest and hear his heartbeat instead, slow and steady despite this shared grief. ]
I'll be right here with you.
[ His answer to where he'll take her. Here, in the unbearable present. He only loosens his grip when he reaches to unclip his cape from his pauldron, letting the fabric fall onto soft ground; he guides Lauralae down to settle with him, legs splayed towards the burble of the water as he hefts her half onto his knees, a thing for her to lean on. ]
Tell me plainly. [ She smells like the sting of copper-blood, and so must he. Still, it's not a crime to try being gentle, even after so much violence. His voice is low, soft. ] What hurts?
[ Yes, he knows she said that she isn't. He asks anyway. ]
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Lauralae has felt loss before, of course. She had lost friends, some distant family, things that meant a great deal to her, but she had been numb to it all then. All of her feelings had been so deeply buried that she hadn’t ever allowed herself to wallow, to sink into it at all; it had felt like weakness. Closing herself off to the world was a kind of protection that had been necessary, otherwise she would have sunk.
Living at the Hideaway, befriending others, learning to be happy and at peace had opened her up to all these strange and unfamiliar feelings. For the first time in years, she’d let herself overflow with emotion, let herself bask in the warmth of it. She knows a great deal of it is due to Clive himself, his patience and kindness and warmth, and even now he stands with her, supports her, guides her through the open maw of feeling so much that it burns her.
Slowly, she sinks into him. Slowly, she leans in to listen to the pulse of his heart, and even slower comes her own breathing, relaxing from the intense high of loss. There’s still so much coppery blood around them, still so much death, but with his warmth and his scent as a cocoon she feels anchored. No one can harm her while he is at her side, and she believes in that. Months in, and her trust in Clive is set and secure, unshakable.
This cements her faith.
Lifting her head, she looks at him, hand rising to grip at the front of his armour, to tangle in the fabric she finds. She needs this, she thinks. She needs what he gives her, and that’s strength. ]
My heart. [ It’s a soft confession. It burns in her eyes. And then, absently - ] My hands. It’s… Strange. They’re not harmed, and yet…
[ A phantom ache, a ghost of suffering long removed from her life - a reminder of what she had been forced to live with, once upon a time. ]
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Her heart hurts, she says. Clive thinks of the trust that she must have in him, now, that she can place that honesty in his hands, and the weight of it keeps him anchored. A reciprocal cementing of his own faith, his own resolve.
He doesn't want to fail her.
So he breathes, and meets the need in her eyes with a request of his own. His brows slant in empathy, but his lips curl up in vague, perhaps misplaced affection. Every part of him wants to be here with her, to listen and to know; the mention of her hands has him lifting his own, metal clinking as he divests himself of gauntlets and gloves to lay his palms and fingers bare.
Once that's done: ] Can I see them? [ As he shows her his calluses, offers his open-palmed touch. ] Your hands.
[ He knows what this entails, and what she fears. ]
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Clive is the one who broached her, gave her time and patience. He is the one who put the effort in, the work in, to be kind, to be gentle, to be soft and willing to allow her to approach like the wild animal she thought she was. Even now, lost in the marsh of her own grief, he is gentle, encouraging a sweeter side out of her that she doesn't think that she's worthy of; there was no reason to believe in it until now. When he reaches for her, she wants to reach back, to trust in what he gives her.
What she wants is to, somehow, feel as if she is worthy of this. That she has earned this. That was Clive gives her is permissible. She doesn't know how to do that.
Dark eyes watch as he bares himself, strips down to the skin of his palms, and she feels something else ache inside of her. She doesn't know what to say, ever so briefly, before her mouth opens and she swallows.
It's hard, but who else in the world could she trust? Her gloves are dark and damp now, from blood and tears, so she ought to remove them. It doesn't make it any easier.
Lauralae's gaze doesn't falter from Clive's as she peels the gloves off her arms, as if she's afraid to bare herself in that way to him. They're pulled off and away, dropped aside, and she can feel the strangeness of it, being curled up against him but having the air on his skin. Her fingers flex, twitchy, buglike movements, and she squeezes her eyes shut, feeling a knot in her stomach.
It's not as if they're that bad. They're burned, marked along the skin and marred, with edges of blackness where the magic has focussed itself. They're not a pretty sight, no matter what, and she can barely lift them to let Clive take her hand in his own. ]
I can put them away.
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Not pretty, no, but they needn't be. There's history in her hands that Clive is grateful to see, not dissimilar to the gnarled map of discolored skin cutting across his own face from cheek to neck. A mark of strife, earned through hardship. Life and death, trial and survival.
She's still beautiful. Clive shakes his head when she speaks to hiding again. ]
They're a part of you.
[ It sounds a little like please. Low and plaintive, in the tradition of him whispering when he wants to be heard. That strange idiosyncrasy at play, even now.
Fingertips touch along the back of her hand. He recalls what she's told him about touch inflicting pain, and while he anticipates it, waits for it―
―the brush of skin against skin feels like a controlled burn. Her fire, his fire, sparking without setting anything ablaze; like a path of light mapped by his fingers along her knuckles, a trail of aether and something ancient, primordial. Ifrit rumbles happily in his chest, and he flares hotter for it.
Ah, he breathes, and moves to curl his grip around her wrist. ]
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Perhaps that is unkind of her, but she cannot help herself.
Her fingers twitch when he touches her, jerking and moving like a child poking a caterpillar, lurching away in case it causes him pain. She expects it herself, that familiar burning, horrifying feeling, the pain and hurt that had her parents whispering monster in her ear. Her eyes close, tight and hard and aching, until... It doesn't come, the surge of heat and burn that she is so accustomed to.
It feels warm, yes, and hot, like her fingers are seeking out the heat of a fire, but it is far, far less painful than she could have ever dared dream.
Eyes widening, she turns her gaze back to Clive, expression wide-eyed and confused. ]
Clive... What...?
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It makes Clive shiver despite the heat of it. Where Lauralae projects wide-eyed confusion, Clive reciprocates with wide-eyed fascination: his grip slides from her wrist and downwards, fingers unfurled to let the tips of them trail down and over the thin skin stretched over her pulsepoint and down to her palm.
Should they be negotiating more? Is he meant to be more careful? But nothing hurts, and so he tests her boundaries just a little more, winding an index around an index. ]
Is it painful for you?
[ There's still the possibility that Lauralae is bearing the brunt of the pain, and Ifrit is absorbing most of his.
(He can feel his aether pulse against hers. Not repelling, but acclimating. Resonating.) ]
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This is an ache she can manage, one that might be worth the gentle intimacy of being closer to Clive and enjoying his company, his kindness, the way that he looks at her. When their fingers intertwine with one another, she almost trembles, expecting a burst of hurt and pain that she can barely prepare herself for, but all that comes is... A tingle, like someone poking at the skin of a bruise.
It feels strange, not just because this is the first time in years that anyone has touched her fingers, her hands, her skin here, but because it's so absent of pain and fire that she feels as if she's breathing for the first time after being submerged in water. It's hard to even begin to put into words all the things that are rolling through her mind, but when she lifts her head to look at Clive properly, her awe is probably obvious.
Slowly, she shakes her head. ]
It aches, but it is not...
[ Something knots in her stomach, and she turns their hands, to press her smaller fingers between his larger one. ]
It does not hurt.
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－until he decides to break that tension and lace their fingers, one by one. He watches her as he does it, her cheeks still tear-streaked, eyes still red-rimmed. The feeling of that touch slithers up his arm, sparks like static against the nape of his neck. It almost feels good, that kick of recognition along with the jolt.
His heart feels too full in his chest; thunderous, it hits against his ribcage in a pleasant staccato. ]
...That's one less hurt for you to shoulder, then.
[ A murmur, less pleased than relieved. This changes nothing about the blood on them and the death surrounding them, but it's a point of contact that Clive can give that says I'm here, I've got you. He closes his eyes, breathes in, and lifts their linked hands to brush his lips against the rise and dip of Lauralae's knuckles. ]
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It's almost impossible to drag her eyes away from where their fingers touch, to the way his hands, so much larger than her own, hold her so gently. The awe is obvious beneath the blood and tears and lingering grief, an inability to hide just how affected she is by the way that he touches her. It's such a simple thing, but it almost breaks her heart to experience it all over again.
Swallowing, she almost pulls back when he speaks, afraid that it'll be a scolding, but...
In the truest fashion of this man, he remains gentle. ]
You...
[ There are no words.
Instead, there is his lips on her skin. There is the rush of something hot to her face, girlish and soft with her embarrassment, with how overwhelmed she is, and a few moments where she doesn't seem able to move. Her fingers twitch, wanting to touch his skin - his cheek, jaw, neck, anything before her, and she has to fumble for words. ]
You are so gentle.
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But he wants to offer Lauralae his truth, so he does. With his breath still dancing against her bared hand, with this new distance bridged and filled. Her vulnerability deserves something reciprocal, and so, Clive keeps his voice steady. ]
I want to be. For you.
[ Because the world so often requires something else from him: brimstone and fire, ozone and ash. Cid the Outlaw, torchbearer and successor. A shield, a sword, a Dominant. None of these things are particularly known to have a gentle touch, nor expected to have one, and yet. It's Lauralae with her knife-sharp eyes and the strength of her bite who makes Clive believe that he can hold and keep and protect; it's her wariness that makes him want better, and her grief that makes him want happiness.
There's so much more in this world than pain. If he can make Lauralae believe that, even for a breath of a second, he can feel joy. ]
―If you want it, after everything you've seen.
[ An addendum, as he lifts their shared grip and presses her knuckles to his forehead this time, as if in prayer. Because this means nothing if she doesn't want it. ]
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The idea of having warmth, tenderness, any kind of sweetness directed at her is such a strange and odd thing that she can't even begin to understand it. Even with Clive in front of her, showing her all of this kindness time and time again, holding her with blood on her hands and tears in her eyes, she questions herself. In what way had she earned this? In what way could she deserve what is in her hands now, from someone who carries so much on his shoulders and deserves so much more than she is?
Lauralae is barely beginning to recognise herself as a person again, as having feelings, and wants, and desires. Finding the part of herself that yearns, that desires, that craves? It has been a long journey, a struggle, and when she lifts her gaze to look at Clive, all she can think is yes. Oh, the longing inside of her is centred upon him, and how could it be anywhere else?
When he holds her, when he touches her? The safety she feels cannot be second-guessed, cannot be ignored. He, and no other, has inspired this in her, and the burning in her heart makes her want to demand that he gives her more. If she thinks about what that 'more' is then she loses sight of it, unsure of herself, but the want remains.
Slowly, she leans ever so much closer, comfortable in his lap, her fingers turning to cup his cheek, the bristle of his beard and the burning hot pressure of his skin against her own. ]
I want all that you have. The bright flame and the lowest ember. All the parts that you hide, and all that the world sees. I want you, Clive.
[ Then, doubting - ]
Is that... Allowed?
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Instead of turning away, he turns into the touch. Rests, and shutters blue eyes; like this, he must resemble his hound, nesting into a particularly beloved palm. Like the night they'd first spoken to each other under the one-eyed moon, Torgal and treats and traded half-secrets.
He trusts her. He wants her to trust him. A wish long overdue for the both of them, maybe. ]
You're always allowed to want, Lauralae.
[ The content of her wanting is a different story－ him, of all things. Once-kinslayer, who left an entire duchy in rubbles; once-killer, with blood up to his elbows. But maybe they share those sins in spades too, the helplessness and the clawing and biting to maintain a sliver of themselves that could remain unsullied by fate.
His eyes open, and he turns his head to kiss Lauralae's palm, her still-persisting lifeline bisecting her burnt skin. ]
Am I allowed to want you, in turn?
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Her longing is so profound, and she can't hide how she feels about him now that they're so close. She has confessed to her desire for him, to her wish to take and be greedy, to sink her teeth into him and not let go, dangerous with desire. Her eyes glint, and she breathes out, shuddering as her hair falls over her face. The shyness overcomes her, but - it's also for fear of him seeing just how needy she suddenly feels.
When he speaks, he makes it sound simple. That she can just have this. Have him. As if she is at all worthy.
The leader of their organisation, strong, powerful, burning with his magic and blessing, towering over her in brawn and brightness both. Lauralae wants him so desperately it could make her feel sick, and while denying him might be easy - it isn't what she wants.
He is what she wants.
Nodding her head, she breathes out. ]
You can want anything. Everything. I want to give it to you.
[ Leaning closer, she pushes up on her knees, to meet him. ]
Tell me what you would beg of me, and I will offer it all. I want you, Clive, and for you to want me, too.