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The bar, rooftop
He'd spent the last few hours ghosting through the woods, trying to find a way back to his home, but it was proving a fruitless search.
And so, he finds himself outside the bar, looking up at the door Javert disappeared through just yesterday. He doesn't want to go in. He doesn't want to face Rae again, not now. Maybe not ever. And he doesn't want to face the man, either. Not like this. He's whole again, but the wolf still clings to him. He feels like a barbarian, or a wildling. He doesn't feel like a Prince right now. He feels like a beast of the wood.
So he retreats to the rooftops, finding the highest place he can with a bit of cover from the wind. He settles in with his back against the wall, his white shirt unpinned, and his cuffs hanging lose. His trousers are tucked into the tops of his riding boots, and he doesn't want to think about how his boots look. (Or who is going to polish them, now that Abel is gone.) He sits with one knee drawn up, and his arm resting on it. The other is clutched across his body.
He keeps his mind closed, shutting out the dim roar of the minds below. He doesn't want to think anymore right now. He just wants a moment of stillness.
And so, he finds himself outside the bar, looking up at the door Javert disappeared through just yesterday. He doesn't want to go in. He doesn't want to face Rae again, not now. Maybe not ever. And he doesn't want to face the man, either. Not like this. He's whole again, but the wolf still clings to him. He feels like a barbarian, or a wildling. He doesn't feel like a Prince right now. He feels like a beast of the wood.
So he retreats to the rooftops, finding the highest place he can with a bit of cover from the wind. He settles in with his back against the wall, his white shirt unpinned, and his cuffs hanging lose. His trousers are tucked into the tops of his riding boots, and he doesn't want to think about how his boots look. (Or who is going to polish them, now that Abel is gone.) He sits with one knee drawn up, and his arm resting on it. The other is clutched across his body.
He keeps his mind closed, shutting out the dim roar of the minds below. He doesn't want to think anymore right now. He just wants a moment of stillness.
(Be still. Stay with me.)
This place will surely be the end of him.
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'I can not.'
Because once it is given, it is no longer his to command. And a part of him wants to believe that it could not be given without some small invitation on the other's part.
He didn't imagine that, the brief and fleeting moment of comfort Javert took in the dream. He didn't imagine the silent pleas for something to take away the pain he was in.
He steps back, and drops into a low, courtly bow, and holds it, his eyes cast down, his back straight.
'I am at your mercy, sir.'
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'I...'
Why is he doing this? What purpose does it serve?
'This is what love is, then? To be at the mercy of another?'
He shakes his head, suddenly tired beyond measure.
'You mock me once again.'
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'No. No, I do not.'
He holds the bow, his eyes closed, the wire in his chest stretched near to breaking.
'I have nothing to give to ease your despair. Nothing to offer you to soothe you. Nothing in this world that you want. But there is, within me, a desire to give to you, all that you require. To do anything just to see you smile, however brief.'
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'Get up. Do not...what are you doing? What do you want?'
He is hissing again, scared, unsettled.
'I am not interested in your desires. They are not natural, and I will not be party to them. If you wish to give me something I require, then go away.'
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He draws himself up, brushing his long hair back over his shoulders, and lifts his chin. It feels as if his bones are still separated, as if he's been disassembled by a child, limbs thrown haphazardly into a corner. They do not belong to him, and yet he must propel himself through space with them.
The urge to turn to mist, or a cloud of bats, is strong, but he resists. He is a monster, but he is also a man, and he will walk off the field of battle, not be carried off on his shield. And he will not indulge the hunger here, not in his sight.
'As you wish.'
His coat is just a few steps away, and he retrieves it, shaking it out and slipping it around his shoulders, keeping his eyes down cast. He goes through the motions slowly, because these are the last few moments allowed to him, and they look, strangely enough, awkward on him. Like he doesn't know what to do with his hands, or where to look.
'I'm going into the bar, proper, now. If you wish to avoid me, that is where I will be, until a door opens to allow me to leave.'
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He breaks off, and looks down. He avoided Madeleine, as much as he could. For a time, at least. It would not be true to say he has not indulged this behaviour in the past.
It is almost as disquieting to see Tepesh at odds with himself. He does not know what to say.
'Very well. It is a large enough place. We need not see each other again.'
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There is nothing left to say. No gambit left to play.
Right now he wishes nothing more than to get drunk, to be without senses for a span of time. (A span of heartbeats.) He doesn't want to leave it like this. It's frustrating beyond measure, and hopeless.
He lays down his king.
He keeps the form of a man as he scales down the ladders, tracing back the way he came, keeping the sound of his heartbeat in his ears for as long as he can.
Beneath his skin, the hunger seethes.
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It is, he tells himself, only good sense. One should know where the enemy is, and it is not often a man has the gift of having a foe in plain sight.
He does not know what to make of this conversation. He does know what to do about any of this. And is beginning to think that there simply is no answer. He is back, they will leave each other alone, it is done.
He would just prefer to believe that with a little more strength than he feels at the moment.