hi

ii.

“You will not tempt me.”

He favours her with an indulgent smile. The poor creature hardly knows what he might tempt her into, but she is at least correct that he has been attempting to entreat both her trust and affection.

She is tolerable, in this life. Has sometimes invited from him a genuine smile.

It is enough encouragement to make her this first experiment at restoring to her what he can.

“I dreamed of a man with kind eyes,” she tells him. “He told me you could never refuse me anything.”

His blood runs cold.

He is a monster.

iii.

This one, he has allowed to capture his hand and draw him through the crowded tavern to the quieter surrounds of borrowed quarters, where he has not resisted being crowded against the wall, nor stopped his companion from sinking to his knees to—

The body has wants, he tells himself. Surely it is allowed.

A pause.

Amber eyes meet his, hazy with lust and—

“...Do you wish I were him?”

What? How...?

(No, it is not that, only—)

The sound he hears from himself, all heartache and a terrible, bitter, confusion, he is grateful to have mistaken for need.

iv.

He watches the pale gold of winter’s sun streaming through the window, light catching at the silver embroidery on Antonia’s nightgown as she brings their son to the glass to greet the day.

“I do think he would love him,” she utters in a distant and dream-like fashion.

He steels himself to ask, “Who?”

“Hythlodaeus.”

In her arms, Lucius yawns and gives a soft, mewling, cry.

A moment later, she shakes her head and looks back at him to ask, “I’m sorry – what was I saying?”

The urge to weep is almost impossible to resist.

“How beautiful our son is.”

v.

She sleeps fitfully.

And no wonder, with so much Light pulsing through her system.

He can hardly bear to look at her, and yet, from across her darkened Crystarium quarters, he makes himself stare upon the consequences of his – their – decisions.

When she speaks, his legs threaten to crumple beneath him.

“...He won’t... Hyth... Why does he...?”

Perhaps it is that his heart stops for a fraction of a moment.

“...Why does he despise me?”

When they cross paths in the morning light, she offers him only a cool and distant disdain.

As he should want.

As it must be.

vi.

“How is she? The time I had to gaze upon her was all too brief.”

From Hythlodaeus’ lap, he blinks open his eyes, the soft glow of the aetherial sea a reminder that he is not dreaming.

“Strong,” he murmurs, “Stubborn.”

He does not allow himself to say heartbroken.

“She misses you,” is what he allows instead, catching at one of his husband’s hands to thread their fingers together.

Silence. A gentle wandering of fingertips over his hair.

“I believe... I would like to watch over her. If it would not pain you.”

No.

No, it would not pain him.