#rubycourtesan

@rubycourtesan​ said : “ i told you, i’d do anything for you. ” (for jester!)

❝   oh , mama -   ❞   tears fill her eyes & her breath hitches even though she’s heard it a million times . & she’s fighting the urge to crawl into her mother’s arms and never let go despite knowing she’ll have to leave soon . she fucked up . she never should’ve brought her mama into this not the city , not the assembly of a country she doesn’t even live in . not knowing what she knows . not running from the people that they’re running from . not even if her parent trapping looks like it’s , like , really about to work . she wipes the tears from her cheeks , before she smiles up at her mama again .   ❝   i know . i know you would & i’m just - i’m just sorry that meant you had to leave home . i just - i wanted you to know that i love our home . you’ve given me the best life & i wouldn’t trade it for the world . we’ll get to go home again , i promise you . i promise i’ll make all of this right . it’s my turn to do anything for you . okay ?   ❞

@rubycourtesan​ said:  “it’s not your fault. don’t blame yourself.” for the gentleman!

          of course, she would say so---the smile returned to her is between gratitude and fondness, infinitely more appreciative that she spares his feelings than accepting what she says as truth.  ( i doesn’t matter if she believes it or is saying it to spare his feelings;  for as long as he does, he’ll take responsibility for it---the illusion of control over a situation where he has so little is an easy thing to get hooked on )  the hand he puts over hers doesn’t intertwine but remains above it, the very tip of his finger and the edge of a nail tracing along the warm curves of her palm.    “  i mourn the time cut off more than i blame myself.  ”     the truth, laced with just enough smile and charm to emphasise the beginning of that statement more than the end of it. the hand he’s been playing with he wraps around his own and pulls against his chest, the back of her against exposed blue skin as he kisses her, as gentle as the finger was along her hand.

              there’s no relief within him from her reassurances, and she is worth more than his poor attempts at lies, so the smile doesn’t quite speak of happiness;  acceptance, desire to not let the circumstances harm what little of her time he still has, and whatever lingers between adoration and devotion---but not quite happiness. marion still has a mess to deal with, and he may be gone again before that can be put to rest, before he has a chance to see her again. there’s no joy in that.     “  next time, i can stay for longer.  ”

@rubycourtesan​ said:   just breathe.

              he’s falling into old patterns of watching his back, of sending his cat to scout across rooftops, of giving each passing individual a look too long, always expecting a flash of recognition when they look back but never quite easing even when it doesn’t come. many others in the group are too perceptive, too aware of his anxieties for him to conceal it from them---he had hoped, though, that should there be one person he could prevent his ever-present state of fear from showing, it could have been marion. the way he draws in air at her command is too pointed, too sharp---he can’t calm down, but he owes her the politeness of trying.  ( he owes her a lot more for causing this, and that’s part of the problem---that’s why he stops functioning when there’s no one he can hide behind in this moment. )

                 “  i. am sorry, miss lavorre.  ”     there’s an attempt to keep his voice level, to ease her mind of what worry has made her comment on his state---it’s too quiet to be effective. eyes dart across the floor, cowering taking the judgement he deserves every ounce of as if hiding was his natural state.     “  i, uh, i don’t want to worry you---any more than i have already, any more than there’s reason to.  ”

send me 📍 and i’ll start a pinterest board for our muses’ relationship.

               Her eyes close, concentrating, counting the words in her head before she gets the spell ready. Normally, Fjord would be here to count the words for her, let her know when she’s about to run out so she can send a follow up, sometimes Caduceus does too— but it’s late at night and everyone’s asleep, the last thing she wants to do is bother any of them. So, she prepares instead. She’s more conscious now, more aware of how losing spells with her rambling might ruin their chances in a battle and cost someone’s life.