#p07

He bores quickly of it. Less than a full day goes by before he's bored of the raunchy novellas lying discarded around the manse. Nor does the housework afford him much opportunity to better himself. The dishes are dried and put away, the countertops swept clean of crumbs, the plants watered: his good conscience is soothed, but his body still wants for things to do.

By the second afternoon he takes up his rapier and sets a training dummy up in the front yard. Someone - mayhap a Riskbreaker - has decorated it with a goofy face reminiscent of a paissa. He decides immediately that he hates it.

For all its comical appearance, it is a hardy thing and weathers his spells well enough. That, or he hasn't perfected the art as well as he'd originally thought. The focusing crystal hums pleasantly when he inspects it for flaws, but he finds nothing that would cause his spells not to do so much damage. Idly, he thinks of the last time he was face-to-face with a training dummy; for sure, that first was a puny thing, and this one no doubt was built to weather adventurers aplenty...

It still confuses him, and he takes up a new goal. Delicately melt the paint off the dummy, or turn it into splinters.

By third day's end his arms shake with the effort of holding both rapier and crystal aloft, breathing hard with the exertion of casting over and over. The unblinking paissa eyes watch him mockingly; he has done not much more than turn a few splinters to the smallest sticks of charcoal despite his best efforts.

"Having trouble, old man?"

He turns to see Helisent, wrapped up in a travelling cape, a great grin plastered upon her face. She must be leaving for Gyr Abania once more. Her drive to help is admirable, if exhausting to think about - the Saltery has been mostly repaired and its workers brought back to live there, and she has finally set her sights upon other little hamlets in need of a helping hand.

"No," says Ingvald, not bothering to fight the smile that works its way to the fore. As they had worked together the teasing insults had been plentiful and somewhat of a comfort after a while. It is nice to hear them again. "Need someone to hold your hand back home?"

His only answer is a tongue stuck out in a decidedly miqo'te manner. "Orella'd kill you," she says happily, dumping her pack on the ground and bending to adjust the laces of her boots. "If you took off with a younger woman, I mean."

That earns a chuckle, though she doesn't say anything more, too busy making sure the leathers won't rub against her feet as she walks. Not one to interrupt such a process, Ingvald rolls his shoulders and tests the weight of the rapier; it doesn't feel as a block of stone yet, which means he can keep going. With a sigh he lifts the focusing crystal high as well, and it spins lazily in midair, barely glowing brighter as he casts a lackluster veraero at the abused training dummy.

"Wow," says Hel to his right. "Was that meant to be white magic? Come on, great-granddad, you can do better than that."

Ingvald grits his teeth. "Hush," he scowls, and tries again. This time his spell peters out before it even reaches his target; his jaw clenches in irritation, and Helisent bursts into laughter too loud for this time of night.

"Before I go," she says, and plucks the crystal from his hand. With his aether so extended down the weapon like an extension of his arm, he feels unbalanced, and the blade wavers. He lowers it, wary. "I think we better work on this so you don't embarrass me in the future."

"Red magic must be balanced," he protests, but doesn't reach to take it from her. "Don't overaspect it or you'll be paying for the replacement."

Without looking away from the crystal, Hel rolls her eyes and shakes her head, the tiniest motion, more fond than disdainful. "Please," she scoffs. "Overaspected. That'd be doing you a favour, as far as I'm concerned."

Something of his worry must bleed through, for he can feel the pulsing of her aether weaken as she tunes the crystal to her liking, and hands it back soon enough with a wink. Try as he might, Ingvald can feel nothing different about it, though he knows she must have done something - but when he opens his mouth to ask questions, she simply winks at him, slings her pack over her shoulder, and sets off.

*

Very quickly does Ingvald become irritable. He takes to practising harder, pushing himself further - not just at dawn and dusk but during the day, too, when it's more likely others will see him. Indeed, one elezen does stop to watch with fascination until he growls too loudly at the still-standing dummy one afternoon. She flees, long legs carrying her past the marketboard quick enough that when he looks over he does not see even the colour of her hair.

Between his mood and the locals it's clear enough he needs to rest. He retires indoors, sweat cooling on his lower back, and wonders if he looks hard enough whether or not he would find any books on magickal energy hidden around the Sandsea. He needs some sort of guidance, more than the paltry exercises Tia had taught him during their time in the Sagolii, and it is with no small amount of relief that he sinks into the chair closest to the fire. Maybe Helisent is right - maybe he is getting old. He certainly feels it, and the thought of getting up to hunt down a book that might not even exist is more draining than he wants to admit.

He falls into the story easier than he'd have thought possible, the chair comfortable enough that he is reluctant to even change position, the fire warm enough that his eyes feel heavier than they otherwise might. The tale he's picked up is engrossing enough - a young midlander convincing her Ishgardian beau to forsake his knightly vows for her arms (and if he rereads the passages detailing just how soft and pert the heroine's breasts are, that's between him and the fireplace) - that he pays no mind to the door when it swings open.

"Oh, how domestic," drawls an unfortunately familiar voice.

Gisfrid stands flanked by two women, nose freshly broken, looking just as smug as he ever has done. To his left, a woman he thinks he recognises but remembers not at all. To his right, Orella, looking as displeased as he's sure he feels.

Silence grows thick and heavy around all four of them until he snaps his book shut decisively. Gisfrid's brows rise almost high enough to meet his hairline when he sees the title.

"Bit racy for you," he says, and his words are swallowed up by the blanket of noiselessness. They all trade glances, all expecting an explanation, no one saying a single word to break it.

... Which means it falls to Ingvald to open the discussion. He sighs, keeps his eyes on Orella. She looks like she might develop a headache before the day is over.

"Explain."

She can't fully hide a little grin, at least. "I was waiting for you to kick off," she admits. "Tell me Ashelia isn't in."

She's not, and he says as much. Orella's shoulders relax, the tension visibly draining from her. Not for the first time, Ingvald wishes she could take some time for herself for once.

"Here," says Gisfrid. "That book-"

"Is it any of your business?" Ingvald snaps before he can carry on. He's as surprised as everyone else to find his tone as sharp as any blade, and forces himself to breath deeply, hold it for four, five seconds.

"... Let's go to our room," Orella suggests. It might be the most sensible thing she's ever said.

*

Their shared room is plain enough that no eyebrows are raised at the impropriety of the two of them sharing a single bed. It's a relief for, Ingvald suspects, both of them - he doesn't want to know how loud Gisfrid would become upon learning about their still-tentative relationship. It seems almost a stroke of luck that she'd forgone the simple copper band she's been wearing since the liberation before setting out.

At length, an explanation makes itself known to him. He sighs at every appropriate point, glares at their guests when he thinks it necessary, and suggests that they meet by the Brimming Heart when the moon's at its highest. Gisfrid shoots him an inquisitive look.

"You don't want us around?"

"Not really," Ingvald says, surprisingly mild for the way he feels. "I want to gather my things in peace before I have to spend weeks by your side again. Get out and we'll meet you later."

Milleuda is the one who shrugs and tells him to suit himself. Gisfrid does not look happy about the arrangement, but follows her anyway, clearly beholden to her rules, and Ingvald sighs deeply as the door clicks shut behind them.

"They're going to steal anything not nailed down, aren't they," he groans, and Orella snorts, amused.

"You don't have to come," she says, and looks weary when she looks at her. The circles under her eyes seem more pronounced than ever; he feels guilty, then, for not suggesting that they rest here tonight and meet them in the morning.

Whatever's going through her head clearly has her wanting to apologise for something or other, too, and he's having none of it. Before she can protest or chew him out or do aught else he crosses the three steps to her, takes her shoulders, and kisses her as firm as he thinks he can get away with: surprised, sh elets him.

"What-" she manages when he parts from her. Ingvald shrugs.

"I won't be able to when we're with them," he says easily, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "I presume you want them knowing just as much as I do."

Irritation writes itself plainly across Orella's face as she contemplates that very real possibility. He allows it for one moment, two, before bending to kiss her again. This time she meets him, slides one hand into his shaggy hair. It's nice, until she's had enough, and she tugs him back easily.

"You don't have to," she says, and Ingvald doesn't know if she means this, or the search for Folles. "Ingvald-"

"Orella," he interrupts, "For once, be quiet."

If he knows her she has absolutely no intention of doing so. Rather than suffer through her complaints, he plants his hands beneath the slight curve of her ass and lifts; it's worth the strain in his arms for the little stoke to his pride that he can, and that flares into something more heady when Orella grabs tightly at his jacket. She's not heavy, but he could drop her easily, something they're both aware of.

"You thought I wouldn't leave with you?" he asks against her throat, and kisses the skin there. "You thought I'd let you go off with that shite and have nothing at all to do with it?"

She squirms in his arms, trying to steady herself. "No," she says simply. "Don't want to be dragging you into my dirty work all the time."

As if of their own accord, her legs wrap around his waist for extra balance. Ingvald takes one step, then another, and another, kissing her skin with every step he takes, before his knees bump against the edge of their mattress, and he dumps her unceremoniously. He follows her down, catches sight of the amusement in her eyes before he kisses her again.

"Alright," she murmurs when he pulls back, "What's all this about?"

Instead of answering her, he tugs at the laces holding her shirt closed, baring the skin beneath. As usual she's forgone any sort of brassiere, having always considered them a waste of time. He bends his head to take one dusky nipple between his teeth and worries it; when he pulls back it's ringed with toothmarks and perky.

"You aren't the only one who regrets things," he reminds her, and doesn't miss the way a frown begins to form between her brows. "He and I were the same. I'm making up for it."

"... You and Gisfrid?" Orella asks, lost, and hisses when he bites her other nipple harder.

"I," Ingvald mumbles, hands already working as his own laces. He's hard in his trous. "Would appreciate you not talking about him in bed."

He puncuates the remark with another sharp nip and sits up straight to glower down at her. Her eyes have gone dark, and they narrow when she sees him work himself roughly. "Folles," he clarifies, and feels a muscle in his jaw tense. His cock jumps in his hand, too. "Take these off," he says, hooking two fingers into her waistband when she opens her mouth to say something.

She swallows, wriggles beneath him to wrestle with the fabric.

"I have to make up for being like him for as long as I was," he continues, watching her. Her hands still at her smalls.

"That's-"

"pyr Bloodhound," he reminds her. "That's what they called me - or did you forget? I didn't get that by being nice."

It's taking her too long to undress. He hooks his own fingers into her smalls and tugs them down so sharply something in the fabric snaps loudly. She gives him an annoyed look but lifts her legs for him to pull them down further, and he finds he doesn't want to waste time undressing. With one arm he pulls her legs over one shoulder, holding them together at the knee where her clothes are gathered. When he catches her eye he stops, just for a moment, until she nods, just barely. Good.

"You're better than them," she says softly - more softly than he's used to from her, and rather than argue the point he pushes his cock between her thighs, gritting his teeth at the feel of her.  He does it again, and then grips himself, angles himself down as he pushes his hips forward, when when his cockhead slides between her folds and catches upon the hole of her cunt he growls, deep in his throat.

"Am I?" he manages, thinking of the past as he sinks into her in one movement. Orella sucks in a deep breath and screws her face up; for a moment he thinks maybe she needed more than what little he gave her, but when he pulls out his shaft glistens. "Could've been quo. Could've been rem. Could've made sas - would I be better, then?"

Instead of answering she grits her teeth. With every point he makes he fucks into her a little harder, a little sharper. With both legs held tight in place and her shirt undone, she looks like any other woman might've had he but dared ask during his time as pyr.

The thought shocks him: not once during their shared service did he ever indulge, though his authority would have afforded him the opportunity had he but asked to. None would have questioned him or looked down on him; he would not have been the first to take advantage of his position, nor would have been the last. Looking down upon her he knows Orella did not abstain as he had done - nor should she have, for pleasure was few and far between for both of them, and for her more than he.

"I did it for you," he growls, low and quiet as he sinks deeper than before into her, and she cries out, the first true noise she's made so far. "Agreed to fight for them for you. What does that make me? A coward- can't even choose for myself-"

"Ingvald," she gasps, and goes tight around him.

"I'm no better than any of them," he growls again, feeling a bead of sweat work its way down between his shoulderblades. Pulling out feels like a sin, but he cannot stop himself; his every movement is jerky and sharp. "Worse than plenty. Shit-"

He grits his teeth, holds her legs so tightly it must pain her for the way her knees are held together, and seats himself fully within her as he comes, breathing as though he's just run a malm.

Orella's hand cups his cheek. He leans into it blind; he can feel the hot prickle of tears begin to gather in his eyes and he closes them, willing them to stay put.

"I did too," she says quietly. He grunts to let her know he's heard and keeps his eyes closed, feeling the first start the slow path down his cheek. Her thumb wipes it away, and the next. "I swore the same. To serve in their name would be to save you."

He swallows heavily, and another tear slips out. Orella wipes that away, too, and runs the pads of her fingers over the stubble he wants to shave before they set out. All he can think of is how calloused her hands are. In another life she would maybe have enjoyed softer hands, softer clothes, softer words. She'd have hated every second of it.

"If I'd said no-" he chokes out, and finds himself pulled gently down, guided to rest against her bare skin, breasts a pillow for him to hide within. Here he can lift a hand to wipe at his eyes as subtley as he can; she ignores the movement. He loves her for that alone.

"We'd have been made to serve no matter what we'd said," she murmurs, and brushes chapped lips against his temple. She shifts under him, and he swallows: she's still hot and wet around him, and he cannot imagine she has found release yet. That fills him with as much shame as his past failings. "You know that as well as I do, and if you'd said no, I'd have been alone." She kisses the top of his head, and he feels her shift again, this time to hold him tight. "And I don't know about you, but I wouldn't have made twenty years by myself."

No, you wouldn't have, he does not say, because they both know she's right. Instead he turns his face up to meet her for a kiss, softer than any they've shared this evening, and chooses instead to reach between them to where her flesh is wet and swollen, and makes apologies with his fingertips.

*

Neither Gisfrid nor Milleuda look any different to how they did hours before; they are devoid of anything other than the weapons at their side. Clearly they've spent the day wasting time instead of putting a pack together.

"I presume you have a plan?" Gisfrid drawls as they approach. "Or is this to be a wild bhoot-chase?"

Ingvald and Orella share a long-suffering glance. It is going to be a long, long journey. As one, they shrug.