#wip whenever

“Shut up then!”

They’re alone in the hallway, and Claude is tired of just about everything, but mostly just tired. Exhausted. He has a budding headache and whereas he has learned to, if not respect, then at least listen to Lorenz’s point of view in the past year, right now it’s simply too much.

“We’re having a conversation about the future of the Alliance. Tell me if you have a rational plan, or if you’re just winging it, Claude –”

Later, Claude has no idea what posses him to do it, but he slams Lorenz into the wall, pressing a biting kiss against his lips. Blame frustration and sleep deprivation or temporarily insanity. He mentally runs through seven excuses and apologies to not lose the support and beginning of friendship with Lorenz, when the other man kisses him back. There’s nothing gentle about it, a pent-up frustration to mirror his own.

She squeezed his arm, and his fingers stilled. He looked down at her, his polite smile softening into sincerity at her raised eyebrows. "Two more minutes." Her father's voice interrupted the half-formed question on her tongue. Vina turned with Axel to face him and smiled at the sight of Manus standing a half-step behind him. Beyond them both, officials stood in two small clusters, a wide gap between their groups. Small pops of color—the crest of Rizia and the shield of Pales—dotted a dozen dark lapels. "Father, Mister Sazon." "Your Graces," Manus said with a shallow bow. He smiled as he straightened. "It's good to see you." "You as well, Mister Sazon," Axel said, reaching out to shake his hand firmly. "I hear you'll be joining us for the festivities after the ceremony." "I have the honor of being His Majesty's proxy for the event," Manus confirmed. He blinked in surprise as her father set his hand on his shoulder. "Mr. Sazon will do an admirable job representing Rizia on my behalf," her father said, squeezing Manus' shoulder in emphasis. "I'd hate to overshadow the celebration—the focus should be on the two of you." "We'll see you at the manor for supper afterward," Vina said, adding on impulse, "And you'll join us as well, won't you, Mr. Sazon?" "I'd love to," Manus said. "If His Majesty and His Grace don't mind, of course." "We'd love to have you," Axel reassured him with a small smile. "Romus?" "Of course." Her father squeezed Manus' shoulder again and let his hand drop as the music stopped for a moment before resuming, Étude no. 6 transitioning into the triumphant opening notes of On Shores of Gold. "It's time to make history." With another shallow bow, Manus turned to follow her father to the right-hand side of the room as the Palesian delegation gathered behind Axel and Vina to the left. The low chatter cut off as they walked onstage, the audience rising to their feet in an uneven wave that rippled back from the front row. Vina smiled out at the packed amphitheater and tucked her hand more firmly into the crook of Axel's arm, giving it a surreptitious squeeze as she did. Her father broke off from the Rizian delegation as they reached their seats, striding to the lectern at the center of the stage with an energy she hadn't seen from him in years. He surveyed the audience for a long moment, hands clasped on the lectern's slanted sides, and nodded. "Be seated." Vina slipped her hand from Axel's arm and sank into her seat along with the audience. He immediately reclaimed it, slotting his fingers through hers and bringing their joined hands to rest on his thigh. Her father looked out at the audience in silence again. The crowd below stared back in anticipation. "You'll have to excuse me," he began at last. "I wrote my speech weeks ago, and yet, as we drove into Terador today, I found that what I'd written and what needed to be said were two very different things. And so, if you'll indulge me, I'd like to speak from the heart instead."

They knew the fear was stupid and that right now, if they wanted to, they could go to their Orbiter and set a heading for Duviri or the Zariman or anywhere else. They'd gotten out—remembered doing so—and yet how many memories had they conjured up from absolutely nothing during those centuries? They'd buried themself in lies before, how hard could it be to do so again?

"Given your history, sweets, I think that's understandable."

At the feel of Arthur's lips brushing once more against their knuckles, Drifter looked up and frowned with skepticism.

"You don't think that's silly? Or…" they trailed off, trying to find the right phrase to encapsulate 'worried your boyfriend is a trauma-induced void hallucination.' "Really fucking stupid?"

It felt really fucking stupid.

Arthur peered down at them with an expression of unguarded affection, an amused smile pulling at his lips as Drifter squirmed under his gaze. Being vulnerable like this still held a discomfort to it, like a jacket that was too stiff and needed breaking in.

When an unseasonable sun climbs past the stand of spruces and bears down on the squadron waiting for word from Redcliffe in all their layers, he sends his greenest recruits to bring them water and lunch. He shifts in his seat in search of better air flow, paces the camp when he doesn’t find it, then returns to fidget more. Would he be nearly this nervous if the mark had stumbled upon anyone else? Rose’s penchant for trouble and decided lack of experience could give him an ulcer. Cullen snorts thinking of her tossing that braid over her shoulder and scolding him for his concern. A different kind of burn creeps into his chest. Nonsensical and covetous, that’s what this is. He focuses on the operation, not the brightness of her eyes nor the heady rush of her company. Even if Redcliffe goes seamlessly, there’s still the matter of the mages. Cassandra and he are aligned on the matter but Rose holds more cards. A fierce gallop tickles his senses— distant probably, though the dramatic landscape makes for uncertainty. He fumbles in his boot for his pocket watch and feels it drop to his footbed. Cullen curses and pulls his boot clean off to dump it out. Past his tied tent flaps, a rider crests the ledge at the edge of camp and makes a clumsy dismount. The flash of orange-red is unmistakable. Cullen trips bootless out of his tent to meet her, his heart trying to escape his ribs. Rose sags against her horse’s neck, smiling, practically delirious despite her soggy, blood-smeared armor. “You’re back,” he puzzles aloud, assessing her as he pulls her upright by her shoulders, pushing strings of hair from her face. She breathes something like a laugh and reaches up for his cheek, her fingers dragging down it, staring at him like he’s some kind of revelation. “You’re alive,” she pants. “Thank the Maker.” Then she wavers and collapses. Cullen catches her awkwardly against his breastplate and barks a string of orders for essentials over her head. Where did the blood come from? Why does she look so bloody dazed? Why is she alone? Why does it looks like she’s been to the Void and back? Rose lifts her head, seeming to remember herself and tries, but fails to straighten. Cullen searches her for wounds. “Where are the others?” He tries to be gentle, but there’s no disguising his urgency. “You’ve barely been gone an hour.” “I rode ahead—” she murmurs, plucking words from confusion. “I had to see you— I mean. I had to tell you. We did it. It’s over.” “You’re wet. And… the blood…” he presses. “Are you injured?” Rose slumps deeper. “I need to sit down.” You’re alive. We did it. It’s over. Cullen chokes back the crawl of unease as he maneuvers Rose toward a freshly felled log by the fire. He snatches a blanket that appears and feeds it around her. Then he sits beside her and waits for approaching riders or more answers or another brush of her hand down his cheek. Any of them might suffice. She exhales long and deliberate and searches the sky as if it might crash down upon them all. “What year is it?”

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