#gallantry

The ancient temple, carved into the heart of a colossal cave, breathed silently hundreds of meters below the ground. As the stone stairs—untouched by the erosion of time—spiraled downward alongside forgotten symbols etched into the walls, the air grew cooler and the echoes deepened with every step. The gallery opening at the end of the stairs was grand enough to defy the limits of the human mind; its soaring ceilings were supported by stalactites and masterfully carved arches.

​In one section of the gallery, historical manuscript books stood lined up on stone shelves that had defied the centuries. Yellowed pages, leather bindings, and faded inks whispered of spells written in lost languages, ancient lore, and forbidden teachings. A dim light emanated from crystal lamps and phosphorescent stones embedded in the walls, making the shadows of the texts dance across the surfaces.

​In another section, heavy stone tables were lined up. Upon these tables sat potion vials of ever-changing colors, amulets covered in runic marks, and strange tools crafted from metal and bone. Some objects vibrated faintly, while others emitted a weak energy as if they were alive. Here, spells had been tested, research conducted, and the boundaries of reality pushed time and again.

​The entire gallery evoked the feeling of a place where knowledge and mystery, wisdom and danger were intertwined; a place where only the brave and the knowledgeable could endure for long.

The novice advisor, taking small but swift steps, hurried down the stairs, trying not to raise his voice too much as he called out to the head advisor's right-hand man "Gour-Namm Ejder, Gour-Namm Ejder..."

"Sir, His Majesty Toor-Uk Ejder is here, upstairs."

she's making a habit out of it and in her heart natasha knows this will be so so much trouble - still, she just can't help it: the theatrics of it all, breaking and entering from the window of his apartment, leaving the lights off then getting comfortable on his beloved armchair ... steve's reaction is always priceless, and she just can't get enough of that face.

speaking of. enter steve rogers, dim lights turning on to present the man standing by the door with groceries for the night in hand. "hi," soft and almost breathless, sweet and lovely just for him. her hand rises up to wave, and the silence that follows has never been so loud. natasha did say she wanted to be dead to the world just a little longer ... but for steve? she wouldn't want to be more alive.

gaze softens as she watches steve excuse himself real quick to leave the grocerie bags in the kitchen, then come back to her. natasha sits straighter when he returns, caught off guard just slightly by the actual quickness of his actions.

indigo hues look up, a flicker of curiosity at hand held out towards her. she has been in everybody's ears about not having the chance to dance with steve at the gala for ... quite a while. natasha won't even complain anymore about evil doers getting in the way all the time and killing her mood, or worse a situation that was being so favourable to her until then.

standing within a few feet of him makes it hard for her to take in the full effect of her own words, but she catches enough—the faint shift of color in his face, the smallest change in the air between them. she tilts her head slightly, eyes narrowing in thought, and then blinks once, slow, as if that moment of kindness has somehow turned inward and bruised something soft. she doesn’t know why it hurts, not exactly, but it does.

the woman in white straightens her shoulders, smooths her expression back into something composed.

“ i wanted to say thank you, ” she begins, dipping her head in a small bow that carries the weight of her usual restraint. “ for coming. ”

she stops there for a breath too long, the rest of what she means to say pressing at the back of her throat. she knows why he’s here—or rather, why people like him are needed at events like this. not as many would come if it were only me. the thought sits heavy, unspoken. money bags don't like her and funding everything herself is too many red flags.

“ having a well-liked face around is important, ” she finishes instead, the words coming out quieter than intended. because i am not well liked despite my best efforts.

her fingers twitch against the fabric at her side, a subtle tell of unease. silence stretches for a moment, filled only by the faint hum of distant conversation and the clinking of glass from across the room. she shifts her weight, looks down, looks back up—each movement small and uncertain, as though she’s caught between what she wants to say and the fear of saying too much, not saying it right, or—

eventually, the pressure of it wins. the words tumble out all at once, unplanned.