#bearfully

Til I kiss your brow again, I'm right here now...(x)

🥹

Drama-Llama Ask Prompts

Morning dawns cold and dreary, a fine mist wreathing Gridania in a pale fog: the light that filters through Sanson’s bedroom window is weak and gray, barely enough to illuminate the room... but enough to reveal what Sanson already knew.

So he didn’t come home.

He’s lost the trick of it, Sanson realizes: he’s forgotten how to wake up alone - without Guydelot’s arms around him, without feeling small and cold. He’s forgotten how to simply rise and face the day without first untangling himself from limbs and blankets, how to begin. This house, his house, feels altogether too quiet, as though holding its breath. Waiting. Sanson shivers, retreating further beneath the blankets, sick at heart.

So he didn’t come home.

Was it really so unreasonable to expect a bard of Guydelot’s skill and experience - and rank! - to accept the duty of training his juniors? They couldn’t rely solely upon Jehantel for training, not when much of his time was already devoted to training the fledgling bards of the Gods’ Quiver, and certainly not when Sanson’s unit had a singularly talented bard at its disposal... if only he could be persuaded to share that talent. But no: not even making it an order has made so much as a dent in Guydelot’s stubborn refusal. And now the tension has bled its way into their personal life, as well.

They’d argued about it, late into the night. Not for the first time, no - but for the first time here, home, where they'd agreed not to bring such things. And it ended only when Guydelot stormed out, as all of their arguments tended to end, leaving Sanson fuming in his wake, frustrated and no closer to a resolution than ever.

"Will you at least explain why?"

"I already told you. What you want 'em to know can't be taught. It takes heart, and they don't have it."

Sanson sighs, rolling onto his back and rubbing his face, willing last night's quarrel to stop echoing in his mind. Who had even started it? Some offhand comment, some ill-considered remark or observation... they'd done so well at keeping it at bay within the neutral confines of home, where Sanson wasn't the unit's commander and Guydelot wasn't supposed to be his trusted lieutenant. But it was always there, simmering beneath the surface, and now...

"Do you think I like this?" Sanson asks aloud, letting his hands fall heavily to his sides. "Do you think I enjoy making a war out of what should be a perfectly reasonable command? Insufferable bastard." But his voice creaks on the word, his throat tightening. Where is Guydelot now? How long does he mean to hide away this time, now that even home isn't a sanctuary from being pressured about his duty? And how long will he struggle against that duty, for that matter?

Sanson takes a deep breath, forcing himself to calm: one thing at a time.

"He's never let me down." There. His voice is stronger now, steadier. "He has never let me down before, and he won't now."

no what the fuck, I hope they got the murderer?