𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖔𝖘 . . .

despite himself, he feels years younger again in such a moment, the same young man who might have seen this near-asleep face once and felt the words catch in his throat. unable to speak his name, to look him in the eye. in truth, he was closer to the young man he had been, stripped to his bare bones and soul, when he had first spoke the words that had been revealed to him in dreams of agony and surety. fearing nothing, for nothing more could wound him than the loss awaiting him at the end of the sullied erdtree. if his heart were still as reclusive and shied as it was once before, it would not spell out his feelings in the tandem of its beating so shamelessly against vyke’s cheek. alas, he is far too late to stop it.

it takes vyke speaking more firmly for him to be pulled back from the current of his thoughts. he looks down at him, unblinking and distracted, before he recalls what he had intended to say. and yet so, what he does mean to say, comes to him slowly; how was it apparent, or just at all, to say what he desired to say in words so meagre and unsatisfactory? ❛  it is a delian word. i could not do it justice with the words i do have, but you must know what it means. i— how have i not told you this before? ❜ he swallows a bit, his fingers carding his lover’s hair protectively. after a moment alone, he cradles that face closer to his chest. if he could disappear this champion into his heart, he would. selfishly, he would shackle him there to the bones of his own ribs. safest there, and loved most.

the morning sun remains ever warm against his skin. though, it is only a fraction of the warmth awaiting him at the palm of a hand so loved, with his face against a chest and an ear full of the noise that keeps a body alive. the air filling lungs, feeding itself to kenneth's voice. a heart ever - beating.

must . . . the word rings after it is spoken, like the final toll of a churchbell. ❛ i never asked before. ❜ an admission of guilt, not one of disinterest. when it comes to them, to their love, to their lives, it is never a lack of interest that paints vyke's actions. it is rather an acceptance of facts. words he doesn't understand, actions that seem so alien to a man defined by the discipline of a knight. he accepts them as commonplace. they happen and he lets them.

❛ your complete heart, hm ? ❜ there is a tug at his own, not a sting, no pain follows after. a simple thing to feel. he takes it as a compliment. acknowledgement of the way he tries to remember love. the little dances, the back and forth of giving and recieving it. vyke hums in thought, though it is only a buffer to buy himself time to reply. ❛ i rather like you using your own words to explain. they're yours, after all. ❜ the smile he offers next is warm as he continues listening. once kenneth is done and their heads lean against one another, he breathes and it feels like he held this breath for years. eyes close for but a moment. his death . . . vyke faintly remembers hearing of people dying of heartbreak after a spouse dies. surely, this is not what he means, this cannot be the extend to words so laden.

❛ we have something similar. i'm sure you remember. i've told you a hundred times before. ❜ snaking a hand to kenneth's side, vyke takes a hold of the metal now part of his love. there's a gentleness in the way he moves a thumb over the engraving. but one of the many plates that make up the arm, a gift given from the depths of his heart. a prayer, a charm. most of all, a promise. ❛ ar ingeir. ❜ the rumble of the ancient language seems so unintimidating coming from a mortal man's throat. laced with adoration, love cemented as deeply as their bond. ❛ — my soul. for we believe one soul is split among two bodies and we spend our entire lives looking for this missing half to make us whole again. ❜ the believe is old, romance in its most basic form. some see it as a promise of someone being made for only one other person. others find it awfully archaic. vyke, himself, did not truly believe in it before meeting kenneth, before slaying the noble beast that was his guardian's brother. ❛ i've seen people give up on it. suffer the heartbreak, without ever having met the rest of their soul, for the rest of their lives. though, it is not in our blood, as it is for you. ❜ him and his people remain human to a fault.

a moment of silent adoration. a moment in which he looks back up, hands still upon his face, kenneth's own head close enough to share a breath. ❛ that is to say . . . i love you most of all, for i am only half a man without you. ❜

The Fool - Mania, delirium, frenzy

the golden lines that decorate his knight are medallions themselves, though alive in a way; they burn a little bit warmer the closer he draws, as if they respond to him, this material gold etched into the line of vyke’s neck and torso. he smiles to himself, enjoys taunting him with lust. beneath them, the knight’s hand has grown into a bit of a rush. those strokes come harder. his breath cracks open faster. hitches, gasps, all of them lend out to his ears for pleasure. he sees himself reflected in vyke’s pale eyes as they look at one another in a moment of blood rushing anticipation, and he swallows a little himself to see what he finds there; imagination running wild, he suspects, engulfed in a mutual, unconfined want. biting his own lower lip, he must constrict his own desire as it threatens to run amok; his hand, aching to draw lower, forcibly comes to a stop over vyke’s upper stomach.

he feels the muscles there, how they grow taut with strain and warm with sweat. something catches in his own throat— breathlessness.

slowly, he drags his fingertips along the knight’s arm. the very arm that is occupied, his eyes drifting to the hand at work. stroking and impatient, lost in thoughts of him and aching stiff and hard for release. he does not indulge just yet. merely toys with his senses, goosebumps up along his limbs where he does, where he receives a devout worshipper’s tender pleas for a kiss. his own eyes are hazy with love and a sudden return of desire, adoring of what he’s given. his mouth hovers close and he nearly kisses him, but instead vyke is given the very impatient drawl of his exhale.

a huff of breath, as if he were touched himself. fingers tightening into the tufts of silver hair, the side of his body comes to press into vyke’s torso. his breaths huff at the knight’s ear, and he knows the moment he has won— when the body against him grows tense, when vyke leans up as if to steal a kiss desperately and misses. it is there, hanging just above him, and cruelly he does not give it to him until he feels the telling shudder of release.

ever the steadfast paragon, on his feet even in the face of beasts, the power he holds over his own muscles ebbs. the sound of fingertips on his scalp is so terribly loud within his skull & he surrenders the fight when kenneth grabs into his hair. being held there takes the effort out of his neck. his breath comes heavy, louder than anticipated and warm with want. this is no longer a game of call and answer, it has become a game of endurance. of patience. both of which vyke seems lacking in.

Knowledge that Daphne is sure may be more useful to else at the Hold than her, but knowledge she'd have him share with her regardless some other time. It isn't so much that she dismisses Thiollier's politeness as she does mean to reassure and placate. It, of course, is presented with a bit more bite than intended, but such was the doll's nature.

       ❝ Kindness should not be done with expectation.   - Quit fretting. ❞   Another slow, gentle glide of the comb and the Revenant does all she can not to pull through the nots, to use nimble and delicate fingers to pluck out what debris prevents smooth passing. She would not be satisfied with only the bare minimum. Silken locks would be restored, even to their fluffy and perfect braids, no matter how long it would take her. It was the least that could be done on her part for his kindness, weightless as he might think it to be. It would always remain important to her. It would remain something for her to repay despite the sentiment she'd just implored upon Thiollier. Still...  it reminds her in her hypocrisy to, at least, offer some forgiveness.

       ❝ You may brush mine in turn if you feel so inclined. ❞   Another pull, soft but insistent, and she believes she's achieved the cleanliness desired. One, two more passes and the comb slips through silken locks like a breeze. Daphne would smile if her painted lips would allow. For now, the warmth to her voice would have to suffice.   ❝ Just a little more... Then I could braid them together again... ❞   As though making the declaration to them both. Daphne does not rush the rest of her movements. If anything, she is finding peace in the slow method. Rhythm in the long, relished sweeps of the comb. A reminder of some distant memory. A remembrance that brings a fondness to her hollow chest.

In no time at all, she's finished. At least with the brushing. She reaches then to offer the comb to Thiollier, motioning for one of the hair ties instead.

       ❝ If you still feel unclean, we can bathe. ❞   Deft hands work apart their hair in sections, taking her time to smooth them out as she begins weaving them into braids.   ❝ I do not mind doing your hair again, either. It'll be easier to clean anyhow, now that I've combed it. ❞

aching bones and the tissue surrounding them still their relentless nagging in moments like these. not for the night but rather the disposition he carries within himself. it almost makes him wish for a short glimpse into eternity, if only to keep the revenant close to the dreamer. the thought alone is a selfish one for there are many more in need of both of their kindnesses.

❛ well - ❜ words catch in his throat. there is more thiollier wants to say. an apology, a promise for makeup, but he doesn't. daphne is right & he knows it. kindness should not be put on a scale. so he sits, movements that indicate fretting still. it's nice, to feel the care of someone else. the gentle tug, the motion of brushing through his hair, it feels nice on his scalp. serenity, unspoken, makes its home in this very moment. the night looms outside, yes and they are perpetually jailed within an everlasting dusk, even here in the hold, it does little to deter the small gestures from shining.

the compensation she offers seems as one of pity, at first. for his desperate clawing at going even out of this dusk. thiollier is well aware there are no debts with her, not for him. but there is little else he can do for her aside from sparing his company. however much that is worth. ❛ i'd like that. i could braid yours too, in turn, if you'd like. ❜ he echoes her cadance for the last three words, not in mockery but rather agreement. ❛ more than just the pieces you wear in the front. i mean the whole of your hair. ❜ the gentle smile on his face carries all the way into his voice.

the trade is simple but fair : a comb for a hairtie and he obliges. once the comb is in his hands, they fall back into his lap. a comfortable weight makes its way onto his eyelids and thiollier doesn't put up a fight. there's a hum, content & appreciative, as he closes his eyes under daphne's learned hands. they remain as such even as he gives his answer . . . a thought, moreso. no one would paint him overtly clean, none of them are given the circumstances, but there is a certain routine that is missing in these dire times. ❛ i don't think i've once felt clean since coming here. everything stains and sticks. ❜ a shudder races against nothing down his back. his clothes alone make for a neverending task of cleaning them. debris and whatever else of the night clings tightly in the spaces between needles. grime, mud and blood nestle deep within the fur across his back. ❛ i wouldn't want to impose. i am perfectly capable of bathing by myself. ❜ though, he would not oppose if they pressed. there is an ease with which daphne and he navigate around eachother. familiar long before the hold took either of them, even if just in fleeting dreams. thiollier learned quickly that it is easier to stick to something - or in this case, someone - one already knows. were he younger some could assume him a lost child, hanging onto the seam of an adult's dress.

she burrows her spade, rusted and well - used, into the soil at her feet before she stands. swiftly, she rids herself of the dust. ❛ of you, yes . . . nothing more. ❜ her eyes wander between him and his companion. there is but a short tug in her mind to reach out and let sif take a sniff. she doesn't, though. the wolf seems much to dignified by the knight's side to stoop low enough for these interactions. aryn looks back to artorias, eyebrows rise in question. ❛ the rest is nothing but rumors, i'm afraid. there are no reliable witnesses. ❜ there must be more & he must know. she's sure of it but will not press. the fate of this townstead is none of her business . . . if she manages to flee before the great cataclysm ahead.

it is surprise that takes a hold of her when he speaks again. a knight of his renown would bolster his opinion with her information ? a mere stranger in such a strange place. aryn hasn't been here for long, maybe a few weeks in total, less than two months. still, she complies. gloved hands disappear into the woven bag on her hip and she retrieves a bundle of dried herbs. the luster of them is lost, replaced by a sickening tint and darkened veins across leaves. ❛ the plants are dying, even those i keep within pots. it's not the soil. ❜ dried herbs might not be the best example. their discoloration must surely convey itself even in their current state. ❛ i fear it's the air. ❜ she offers the bundle upon an open palm. ❛ and we're breathing it. ❜ she, the citizens . . . everyone within these forsaken walls.