𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 does not mean she doesn’t want to grab the nearest, and heaviest, tome and hit him over the head. He’s every bit infuriating and endearing all in one ancient, slightly racist elf; to say she’s gobsmacked would be, well, not entirely incorrect but lacks the depth of her shock. Then she remembers: this is the man her heart wants. This is the man that she not only wants carnally but spiritually and emotionally and–she wants everything. This means even when he isn’t the charming man that makes her rub her thighs together in wanting, but the infuriating one who answers questions with questions.
Ciri wants all of him, not just some of him, and for a little moment, old insecurities manage to worm their way into her head. Does he want all of me too ? Not just my magic, what little is left of it, but the parts that make me human ? She worries her lip with her two front teeth in a self-indulgent pity party, before those emerald eyes blaze at his insult. Not to her, but about her kind, and even implying… Oh, that ass.
“ You’re an asshole. ” In her irritation, there’s a softness, fondness, buried deep, and she knows his ears are keen enough to pick it out. Her eyes squint and, in an act of pure petulance, scrunches up her face mockingly toward his. She’s young, brash, and fiery. She’s the image of her Grandmama at her age and, if the aen elle she’s met are correct, Lara herself. The woman that gifted her looks, her fire, magic, and a prophecy she never wanted to be saddled with, and ultimately almost died from.
The moment of wanting is gone, mostly, to be replaced with anxiety, irritation, and the realization that she would love to spend the rest of her life doing this exhausting dance. She isn’t going to say it. Oh, no, he’s being an ass; he doesn’t deserve such declarations. When he makes his way back to what he was tinkering with before her confession, Ciri gives him a silent raspberry, before straightening her posture to seem like the adult she really was. The adult she acted two halves of the time. “ I think I will like Toussaint. And at dinner, I will sample every delicacy, especially my favorite. ” A smirk tugs her lips upward as she begins to walk backward, slowly, to the door, her eyes close as she lets out a drawn-out moan. “ Warm apple pie. ”
Although his lips only betrayed a slight sidelong tug, fondness reached his eyes as the Swallow caught wind of Avallac’h’s sarcasm without taking offense. His crystalline stare calmly followed her on the way out and, this time, a single eyebrow crooked up at Cirilla’s suggestive drawl.
Whatever it was the Sage had to do had clearly taken up a good chunk of his time— and it was only on the following week that he’d returned, every bit the armoured elf to face the blow of Cirilla’s wrath as one would have expected him to be after a week-long absence with nary a see you later to match.
“Findabair is a fool to think she can take up arms against the estate of her own accord should Queenhood not be granted to her.” The man whose onyx ring reflected flickering flames as though alive spoke, his mouth tasting sour after the news. “I trust you’ve talked her out of that nonsense, Sage. Which makes me wonder how… Those of your species are known for their stubbornness.”
“Those of my species, as you put it, are known to lend a wise ear to another of kindred blood.” Avallac’h countered, still donned in his travel attire— and given the fact they’d soon be leaving, no sooner would he see himself rid of it. “I’ve counted her armies and while short, it grows shorter still with this so called Eternal Fire wreaking havoc about while the Emperor does precious little to quell these roaring flames. Enid has started to wonder when faith took over the crown.”
“Enid has grown bold.” There was poison in his voice, a bitterness even the wine he sipped was unable to wash away. “Although I admittedly despise these tidings, you’ve done well, Sage… So well I almost feel inclined to consider your earlier proposition. Now, tell me, have you seen Cirilla yet?”
The next time Avallac’h could be found was on his own, leaned sideways against a pillar while watching his ward clash swords with a few of the emperor’s knights. Clash swords? He could have sworn she was taking out her frustrations on them, blow after blow… Victory after victory. And would have kept doing so had his eyes not found hers for the first time ever since his arrival mid counterfeit after a pirouette. Could it be no one had bothered to notify Zireael of his return?
