The Daily Life of one Aenor Galliarde

 “I don’t think I’m either submissive or dominant, really. I can play at both if my partner might wish me to, but if the decision was up to me… suffice it to say, I prefer bedding equals. Not only do I feel a lot less dirty afterwards, but celebrating pain or dominance or submission or what-have-you is not for me. At best, it seems uncomfortable and at worst I burst into laughter halfway through.”

“Polyamory, by lengths. It is what I am more familiar with and I only very rarely end up falling hard enough for one person that I - and that will sound horrible, but I do not know how else to put it - need nobody else. For a good chunk of my life, I had a circle of close friends that I’d end up in bed with on a regular occasion and… that was sort of that? I don’t think I am very romantically inclined, or maybe I wasn’t back then. Now… hm. Now that I’m thinking about it, I might have to retract my earlier statement. I don’t seem to fall in love very often, nor for that matter form committed romantic or even sexual relationships on the regular. I’m not saying that I don’t do it at all, but… well. It’s rare and the last time it happened, it didn’t go very well - which doesn’t precisely fill me with confidence for the next time!”

He nods to her concerns, then regrets it a little. His head is throbbing, and the motion exacerbates the pain. It’s a fleeting concern, given the weight of the situation.

“If you prefer, ma’am, I c-can… I c-can not mention you at all. Honestly I… I don’t think they’d believe me if I d-did…” And that’s another shudder of fear. He can hear her voice in his head, flat and angry saying I don’t believe you. and he has to wrench his thoughts away from the memories of what happens next when she thinks he’s lying.

It is better than nothing. She will have to trust him on this one way or another - unless she puts her foot down and sees what shakes out if she takes matters in her own hands, whatever happens is very firmly in his. Is that enough? More importantly: If she thinks it isn’t, can she bring herself to do something about it?

Yes, that is definitely a headache she is currently experiencing. At least there is one thing she can be absolutely sure about. Then again, if his handlers - or owners - decide to look into things... ah, saints. She might as well ask. Chances are she’ll get an answer, and probably a honest one too.

Surprise again. Surprise that she has more confidence in his obedience than he does. Surprise that she would prefer him not to be punished. (Fear coils nauseous in his gut. It is only the immediate punishment of Cav’s guilty anger that she could defend him from, and that is not the one that terrifies him.) Tears sting afresh, but he steadies his thoughts and they do not fall.

“Thank you, ma'am. But… I d-don’t think you c-can be blamed…” Hesitation. How dare he presume to make a moral judgement? But he presumes he ought to finish the thought, having started it. “I, I mean I… chose t-to, to run. I d-don’t know how long I’d… I’d have taken to c-come to my senses, on my own.” He supposes that he would have eventually. Probably not more than an hour or two. What a miserable thought.

And then it occurs to him what leading her back to the others would entail, and the thought is pain. A hard enough reprimand that he can’t quite suppress the flinch. His breath catches and there is a hint of an involuntary twitch. He bites the sides of his tongue to keep from gagging. Bites too hard, tastes blood. “You, ah, you n-needn’t spend any more of your t-time on me. Ma’am.” he manages a little tremulously. Stupid thing, he curses internally. Why don’t you care at all about my intentions? And why do you have to make it harder for me to do what you want? I can’t think straight like this!

That might have been the wrong thing to say again, but he stays - well, present. Maybe that is a good way to classify it: presence and absence... though it matters little now, does it. She resists the urge to rub at her forehead, if barely. The headache has been building so steadily and slowly, she hasn’t really noticed it - but then she is used to the steady thrum of pressure in her skull and to functioning despite it. Good enough.

He declares her innocent at his expense and she finds the slight smile overtaking her despite better knowledge, though it drops quickly enough. It is a sobering thought that she still can see herself in him - or him in herself? Now there is something she doesn’t feel like contemplating. Instead she makes to open her mouth and answer, but his twitch forestalls that thought. Her eyebrows rise as doubt mounts. Very well. If the thought unsettles him this much -

He feels a powerful rush of relief. If she’s not opposed to his going back, she probably doesn’t intend to execute him. It’s short-lived, the paranoid chatter of his thoughts rapidly suggesting scenarios where this doesn’t work out well, and chiming in with but when we get back to the- No. None of that. Breathe. Stay in the moment. What is she suggesting? And why, still, would she care for his input on it… There’s another flare in the implant-induced headache. But he has his breathing under control now, almost has his head in the game, even. Pain is ignorable.

“I… I wouldn’t presume to have a-an opinion on what you should d-do, ma’am,” he tells her carefully. “I c-can understand why you wouldn’t trust me t-to… to take myself back.” He isn’t sure he trusts himself. A frightened impulse still says he should flee as fast and far as possible and pray that the idiots in charge of him somehow can’t find him to drag him back to- No. Breathe.

Oh saints. He is everything she is primed to respond to - polite, aware of his station and of hers, well-mannered, friendly, submissive but not ingratiating - but he is also a heretic, if a one (apparently) desperately trying to atone. Then again, if all of this is an act... not even her seneschal is that good of an actor. She can all but feel her emotions being dragged into opposing directions: It is so easy to be fond of him, but she cannot unknow what he has done and with that comes the crawling terror of being at the mercy of the daemonic again. So far she’s always gotten out of those close calls relatively unscathed, but she is well aware that that luck will eventually run out - and then what will she do? (And worse, what will become of her crew?)