(㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

He might’ve been one of the prettiest men you’d ever seen, with sharp features carved around a thin, narrowed nose, and defined collarbones half-hidden behind a flowy white shirt.

“...Hello?” Throat wincing at the strain, you were suddenly all too aware of the sandpaper texture that coated the roof of your mouth.

A squeak you would’ve called undignified escaped you when his full eyelashes opened, instantly locking onto yours. Even from this distance the stranger kept himself at, you could easily see their vibrant golden color, much the same as his hair.

“Good, you’re finally awake. I was beginning to consider you might’ve knocked yourself out into a coma.” You didn’t respond right away, focused instead on recalling sparse memories of the night before, a dull horror falling over your face as you thought again of what hunted you through the blackened woods.

This stranger must’ve been the observant type, deciphering your thoughts from just the shell-shocked way you stared at the bandages looping down and around your body, “There’s nothing to be afraid of anymore, you know,” you jerked your head up to look him in the eye, “nothing can get to you in here. You’re safe now.”

His words were of some assurance but mostly they just took your mind off the hauntingly fresh memories from last night, “Where am I? Ho-How close are we to Arges?”

His eyebrows knit in concentration as he spoke, as if he was weighing the burden of the words on his tongue, “You’ve found yourself in my castle. As to its exact location… I’d say two kilometers or so from the nearest town, southeast of here.”

You blinked, whatever measurements he was using were lost on you and you hoped he’d get that from the clueless look you so obviously wore.

After a moment your host must’ve realized not everyone got whatever fancy education living in a castle provided, rephrasing himself, “About a day’s ride on horse to Arges.” Your eyes shot open at that, the soles of your feet aching after hearing his estimate.

“What?” You said, panicking, “I ran that far?’

“Did you really not know?” Adrian asks carefully, as if his compassion might spook you.

No, not compassion, you correct. Pity.

“I’m sure this is a lot to take in all at once, but try not to injure yourself any further.”

At that, all attention fell back to your injuries, experimentally raising first your left then right arm, wincing at the flaring ache that ripped its way down the limb from your shoulder after stretching too taut.

“Careful. You’ll undo all my good work,” You flinched at the cold bite of his words and he must’ve noticed if his sigh that followed was any indication, “You took a hell of a beating to get here, I’d advise against movement for a little while.”

You perked up at that, taking in the bandages that you felt adorning the rest of your body in a new light, “You did this?”

“Who else would you think?”

Shrugging didn’t seem to be an adequate response to your host, so you went on, “I mean, don’t you have any servants or something?”

He resolutely shook his head, and your lips twitched into a frown, “...Then who else lives here?”

It was only after a lengthy pause that you realized what his silence begged you to unspokenly know, “You aren’t saying you live in a castle… alone?”

Your host couldn’t manage to hold eye contact with you any longer, scoffing instead as he looked to the floor, “You sound so horrified by my life.”

“Don’t you ever get lonely?” You couldn’t help but notice the way his grip on the armrest tightened at your question, worsening the look across your face.

He didn’t answer, he didn’t have to, the lack of one spoke loudly enough on its own. Instead he pulled himself from the couch, standing up with a mumble about going to get you a glass of water in the smaller room beside your bed, leaving you to your thoughts. Although as much as you wished it would subside, the events from last night seemed adamant to thread themselves into your being although you desperately tried to ignore them.

After the first half-hour of running your memory truly became a blur of blood, teeth, and rain, but the illuminated sight of the castle’s imposing silhouette towering over the glade was fresh in your mind. A tall, spiraling thing that rose high enough into the ashy clouds above that you couldn’t see where it ended. You could probably stack every trade shop, house, and church in your village on top of each other and the building you’d make would still be dwarfed in the castle’s shadow. The idea that someone could live in such a place miles from the nearest town with only dustmites for company sat wrong in your chest.

He returned with a glass of water and a warning not to drink too fast. You manage to, slowly, head reeling. If the man notices your disorientation, he doesn’t say anything. Despite what your instincts beg you to do instead, you heed his instructions and take one leisurely sip of water at a time until your headache begins to subside.

“So, would you think it’s fair of me to ask the name of my patient?” He still kept some distance from you, something you didn’t find too weird, nodding with an unsteady smile.

When you told him his eyes lit up, repeating it back to himself under the hush of his breath. You might’ve thought it was your imagination if not for the way you saw his barely parted lips form the syllables.

You cleared your throat, hoping to distract from the faint pink dusting onto your cheeks, “And what about yours?”

His soft smile fell away, replacing itself with something unreadable.

“It’s… Adrian Tepes.”

Your eyebrows furrowed at that, the name for some reason familiar, inviting a brief sting of déjà vu before the sensation passed like a fleeting shadow.

You shake it off, extending a hand to where he sat at the end of your bed despite the wince of pain that stemmed from moving even your less damaged arm. It might sting, but you muster as much ernesty into the gesture as possible.

“Well, thank you, Adrian Tepes… you saved my life.”

Molten eyes widened, looking from your outstretched palm to your face, for what, you couldn’t say, before finally taking his hand in yours. When you made contact with his skin your smile faltered briefly, unsettled by the coolness to his touch but again you brushed the notion aside. Pulling away soon after, you noticed Adrian’s lips pressed firmly into a line whenever he drew the slightest bit closer to you, flinching away from your touch like one of the untrusting feral cats you’d take pity on from time to time back home.

Home.

All of a sudden you were thinking about your old cottage sitting on the outskirts of Arges, no longer just a structure made from cobbled stone and brick-thatched roof, but a home. Your home. Commissions and projects still left unfinished across your bed, half-sewn bodices and sleeves all indented with pins and string. All the potted plants you’d taken inside would be long dead by the time you made it back, and of course the stray cats that often sit by your windowsill and beg for scraps would be missing you dearly, knowing your house was an easy mark because you’d cave into their demands for food every time.

You were pulled from your thoughts by Adrian calling out your name, a tinge of worry in the crease of his brow.

“Are you alright?”

“Sorry, I—It’s a lot to take in, I guess. All of it, I mean.” You muttered, unable to come up with anything better than a lackluster response.

“I understand,” your host was softer with his wording, able to pick up on your distress, “I’m… sorry. About all of this.” What did he mean by that? You fumbled to grasp at whatever Adrian thought he did wrong before he nodded towards your broken ankle, hidden under linen, and you knew he only meant he was sorry that you had to endure it at all.

You shrugged, “I’m not.”

“Pardon?”

He looked at you as if you’d grown a second head, and you stumbled through trying to explain yourself, “I—Adrian, although last night was…” a snap of the night creature’s jaws flashed behind your eyes, “scary… The point is, I’m lucky to be alive. Most others don’t get the luxury of being saved, let alone healed afterwards.”

Adrian’s lips barely parted and shut as he tried to think of a response, something unreadable darkening his fair features. The silence wouldn’t last, it seemed, as soon the tension was broken with the almost comically loud rumbling of your stomach.

Air pushed through his nose, “Where are my manners… Would you like me to fix breakfast? You must be starving, I’m sure.”

“Really?” You winced as the wonder in your voice betrayed you, still not used to the idea of a blue-blood like Adrian offering to make food for someone like you as if it was second nature. “I mean, thank you, sir, but I—“

His eyebrows shot up, “Sir?”

A hint of red found its way to your face, “I mean, you never said… I’m sorry, is it Lord Tepes instead?”

It might’ve been his turn to blush.

“No! No,” his voice almost cracked, an odd bout of nerves tickling out a cough, “just Adrian, please.”

“Oh,” you smiled, “well.. Thank you, Adrian. It’s been a while since anyone’s cooked for me.”

At the mention of food your stomach groaned once again in protest. You’re hungry. You always are these days, but then again, so is everyone else. Famine has almost started to become a stronger horseman than war or death in Wallachia these days. The last time you’d eaten was yesterday, a lunch consisting of apples off a nearby tree and a half-loaf of bread that had already begun to mold, but you still made a point to be thankful for every gluey bite. It was more than most people could afford.

He frowns at the edge of your bed, “Then it seems we’re both in luck. After all, what’s the point in learning how to cook if there’s no one to cook for?”

Standing up, his long legs made quick strides towards the door, though that height might have something to do with the leather boots strapped up to his calves, “I won’t be long. The kitchens aren’t far. If you need anything, simply call for me, and I’ll hear.”

A weak smile seemed satisfactory to placate Adrian’s request, another muttered “thank you,” reaching out before the door closed behind him, leaving you alone in his riddle of a castle.

Without anything to do while you wait, your mind turns inward, thinking more about your savior with the pretty hair.

You decided it was impossible he wasn’t some form of nobility, his posh intellect stood out like a sore thumb and completely betrayed his background, especially in comparison to your… less than average education.

Though you briefly entertained the idea he was a squatter with a background in medicinal practice taking up residence in an abandoned castle, you eventually had to scratch that idea. He seemed far too in his element for that to be the case. He’d introduced himself with only a first name, no honorifics or lordship attached. He hadn’t even asked you to call him sir, unlike every other nobleman you’ve encountered in the past through your business, each leaving a similar acidic taste in your mouth, and Adrian left no such thing.

So who the hell was he?

Standing alone in the kitchen, Adrian thinks he might’ve gone a bit overboard.

On the tray he meant to take back to your room sat scrambled bird’s eggs topped with salt and tomatoes, an apple, a bowl of steamed oatmeal drenched in honey, and a glass of orange juice made from one of the fruit trees that still barely clung to life in his father’s old greenhouse.

Still, he couldn’t help himself. He wasn’t lying when he said it’s been a while since he had the chance to cook for another person, a wince finding its way to his face once he realized that last person had been his mother, only two weeks before her execution.

Adrian picked up the tray of food and carried it to your room maybe a bit faster than needed. Speaking with others seemed like the best way to stop his train of thought from spiraling any further. After all, that was one of the things he loved about spending time with Sypha and Trevor.

His knuckles rapt against the doorframe only to be greeted by a giggle from the other side, “This is your house, I don’t think you have to knock.”

“Well then,” he leaned his back into the doorframe, presenting the meal with a bit more dramatics than necessary, “forgive me for being polite.”

Your eyes widened to a comical degree once you saw the food, alight with awe, “You’re… so forgiven.”

He chuckled, sure to keep his mouth shut once he got close enough to set your food down. If you told him that less than twenty-four hours ago you faced a likely traumatising near-death experience, he wouldn’t’ve believed you. Not with your eyes shining like a child’s on Christmas morning. He wondered if this might be more food than you’d ever seen on one serving, jaw slack with shock then closing in confusion when he set the entire tray on the empty space of your mattress and walked back to his seat on the daybed.

“Are you not having anything?” You were probably worried about seeming rude, and he wanted to be sure his patient didn’t have any misgivings about accepting his hospitality.

Adrian was quick to brush away the question, “I assure you, I’m full. There’s no shortage of food in the nearby woods, I can promise that neither of us will go hungry. Besides, you need to get your strength back.”

Even though you were eyeing the meal like it might bite you, there was no hiding the drool along your lips. Though uncertain, you didn’t press him for more, and a breath he technically didn’t need to be holding left him when you finally dug in.

He might’ve scolded Trevor for doing much the same thing, gulping down food and drink as if it would be snatched away at any moment, but he reasoned that you of course had a valid reason for doing so.

You only paused after catching sight of his expression, wiping a stray piece of tomato with your wrist.

“Is there something on my face?” You said through a mouthful of eggs.

He shook his head, “No, don’t worry over it, I was overthinking.”

“Hm. Penny for your thoughts?” While you were downing half the orange juice in one gulp, Adrian mulled over how to properly string his wording.

“When was the last time you were full?”

Whatever you were expecting him to say, that question clearly wasn’t it. At once your face shifted, somewhere between bitter and sad.

“A bit.” And before he could say anything else, a resolute scoop of eggs was enough to end that conversation before it began.

The pair of you fell into an uncomfortable silence, interrupted by the scrape of unblessed silverware against ceramic. If he could, Adrian would kick himself for his insensitivity. Of course it’s been a while since she’s had a proper meal, the whole damn country was starving.

Adrian shifted his weight where he sat, trying his hardest not to stare by instead casting his sights at the clouds outside, racking his brain for what to say or if he should say anything at all. In his defense, he hasn’t interacted with anyone in what felt like several months; though admittedly he might’ve been wrong as he couldn’t bother to keep track of time or dates anymore, not since the day he woke up from that coffin.

“Can I ask you something?” Your question nipped him away from his thoughts before they could take hold.

“Always.”

“Who are you, really? I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, but I know nobility when I hear it,” he knew you’d ask this eventually, but truthfully Adrian hoped he would have avoided the subject for as long as he could. He didn’t enjoy lying.

“My father,” he sighed, “was a Voivode. A prince of Wallachia,”

You went to speak but Adrian could already tell what you were about to say, and wanted to quickly interrupt any preconceived ideas that might be brewing, “Now don’t go thinking I’m any sort of prince-”

“—Aren’t you though? Like, by definition?”

Adrian frowned, “I rather doubt that. Shortly after the end of the crusades my father was excommunicated by the church. You can probably guess how my family lost any nobility it might’ve had claim to after that. All but this castle, it seems.”

It was a fool’s errand, he knew it, but Adrian tried his damndest to speak in as many half-truths as possible instead of outright lying. It felt less guilty somehow. If you were going to be staying in his castle for the foreseeable future, he wanted you to have some idea of who you were actually talking to.

Besides, it wasn’t his fault if you thought he was talking about the squabble in Varna thirty years ago instead of The First Crusade of 1094.

“That’s… Jesus, Adrian,” you looked shell-shocked trying to wrap your head around everything, “I’m not sure what to say.”

“Well, as long as you don’t start reciting bible verses, you’ll be reacting better than most people would.”

You laughed. It was hard keeping a smile off his face when yours was so infectious, but there was no other choice. If he did, there isn’t a chance you wouldn’t see the daggers in his mouth.

“Trust me, I share no sympathy for the church. I’m practically one step away from becoming an excommunicant myself.” You dove for the sweetened oatmeal and proceeded to slurp it down with a hunger that would’ve put even Trevor to shame.

“Oh? And how did that happen?”

You stopped chewing, no longer looking at him but through him, mind wandering somewhere else.

“Can… we talk about it some other time? Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

He nodded, and a weight visibly lifted from your shoulders, “Of course. We don’t have to talk about anything that could make you uncomfortable. Some memories aren’t worth reliving.” And he hoped, by some extension, you would offer him this same courtesy.

“Did you say you came from Arges?” You nodded, taking another spoonful of honeyed wheat, “If you don’t mind me asking, what was your trade?”

Though you talked with your mouth full you at least had the decency to cup a hand over your lips as you did so, “M’ a seamstre’th.”

“…A seamstress?” Nodding eagerly at his translation, a chubby smile reached your cheeks that did wonders for his culinary ego.

Choking on an overeager bite, you pounded your chest with a closed fist for a moment to clear it away before you continued. You spent your meal recounting the ins and outs of your daily work, almost rambling at some points about your irritable clientele. By the time you’d finished the bowl of oatmeal, Adrian had gained an adequate understanding of the Arges flea markets and how to dye sheets of cotton from wildflowers. He occasionally threw in his two cents but for the most part just let you do the talking.

“Work’s been slow since the world fell to shit, but I’m managing. The only real clients I get these days are aristocrats with so much money on their hands they can afford to ignore that the country’s on fire.”

“That sounds dreadful,” you giggled at his deadpan, agreeing wholeheartedly.

“It’s not all bad. At least I get to dress myself in whatever I want,” your optimism cut short when you accidentally gestured to the ivory nightshirt Adrian had leant you, “or… most of the time.”

He hadn’t exactly been paying attention to what you were wearing when you arrived, your dress too ripped and muddied to see any of its craftsmanship. But still, knowing you most likely made that dress yourself brought a small pang of guilt to remember cutting it to pieces, even if he had reason to.

“Right. Sorry about that.”

You shrugged, “Eh, it’s alright. There was no saving it. Besides, I can make a new one when I get back home.”

An idea so perfect came to mind it’s a wonder Adrian hadn’t thought of it earlier, “What if you could make one here?”

“Can I?” Your voice betrays the cautious excitement behind it, instantly assuring him this idea was the right one.

He risked a small smile while he talked, “Of course. I’ll have to go into town to pick up some supplies anyways. Would you be able to make a list of everything you’d need?”

A blush sparked to life on your face, “Maybe? But I don’t think—“

Truthfully he

“You’ll be here for a while by any means, so it might be best to pick up extra fabric and thread just in case. A dozen or so yards should be more than enough. I wouldn’t want you growing bored—“

“—A dozen yards!?” You cried before any common sense could stop you.

“Is there something wrong?” He seemed unfazed by the little outburst, a finger tapping against his cupid’s bow while he contemplated the logistics of his plan.

Resting your head in your palm, you gave a laboured sigh at your host’s enthusiasm, “Fabric is expensive these days, Adrian, even if you live in a castle. Because of the hordes, there aren’t many people alive to make and sell fabrics themselves, plus, merchants rightfully avoid this country like the plague. You’d be lucky if you found one or two yards of decent quality, and that’s pushing it.”

He didn’t appear the slightest bit discouraged, only mumbling some affirmation loud enough to know he’d heard what you said, and was choosing to ignore it.

“Don’t be so difficult. Money is no object, I’m sure to find what you need.”

The two of you were at a standstill. Adrian clearly wasn’t budging no matter how reasonable your argument, and it left you frustrated beyond belief.

“…Fine,” you said through gritted teeth. It’s evident you couldn’t stop him from doing this favor for you, and instead of telling him just how much the gesture warmed your chest, instead you averted your gaze and muttered, “If you’re going to do this anyway, you can just go to my house.”

“What…” It seemed you managed to pull him away from his train of thought, stuttering the syllables of your name while a blush sputtered onto his temples, “What are you doing?”

Without explanation you craned your arm down into the neck of your loaned shirt, ignoring both the ache it caused your shoulder and the look Adrian gave you as if you were insane. Cupping one hand around your breast, you dug between the bindings and your flesh until the texture of warm metal brushed your hand.

You dug the key out from your bra with a triumphant smile and revealed your house key in the light like buried treasure, amused to no end by Adrian’s look of sheer dumbfoundment.

“Catch.” You allowed yourself to laugh after tossing it towards Adrian, the key fumbling between his fingers before he could snag it from the air, blush worsening, if that was even possible.

He stared at the still-warm key in his hand with such thinly-veiled embarrassment you almost felt bad for hiding it there. Almost.

“You’re… awfully trusting, aren’t you? Allowing a stranger to come into your home without you there?”

To be honest, you considered it, yes. While Adrian seemed perfectly polite and leagues above most men in terms of courtesy, he was still a stranger in essence. And yet, “Why not? You’re letting me do the same.”

He frowned, as if expecting such a response. “There is nothing stopping me from ransacking your home while you’re here in bed—with a broken ankle, might I add.”

“It’s really not that big of a deal, Adrian. I mean, you live in a castle. It’s not like I have anything worth stealing, unless you’re fresh out of crooked needles and dust-mites.”

With his frown evening out, you continued, “I live along the main road, so my house won’t be hard to find. Just keep on the main road east through town until you reach some sheep farms. I live across from one. You’ll know which one’s mine ‘cause I left some dyed fabric out to dry on the wire.”

“…Fine,” he sighed, absentmindedly thumbing over the key, “I’ll leave for Arges tomorrow. Let’s hope none of your neighbors mistake me for a common thief.”

You nodded wisely, “They might sick their flock on you.”

Adrian smiled, no teeth showing, but it reached his eyes and somehow made his whole complexion softer.

“That’s a fight I might not win.”

The two of you broke into giggles, filling the hazy morning air with a comfortable warmth that somehow managed to distract you from both your swollen ankle and the memories of last night that nipped at your heels. You reasoned that the sensation had everything to do with the banquet of food Adrian had presented quite literally on a silver platter, and definitely not because of the company that came with it.