bones still ached from the catastrophe that had become HAVEN. he had saved lives, yes, the smiles of the girls he had found bundled in the snow still beam in his mind, and yet he himself was almost lost once again — the chill still clings to his skin and while his lover would tell him not to venture far, to care for himself, he still did the opposite, guilt pulling him to prayer and confession for past sins, for the lives of those who were lost and the blood that now stains his fingers. the lovers words mean more than a god’s ever will, but it is comfort — a second sense of grounding, to be grateful for what he had, that others hadn’t.
he soon forgets this though, the hum of a song meets his ears and soon he is searching for the voice behind it. the usually stoic features of the holy champion soften into smile when he enters the chapel and sees her, knowing full well that the armour he bore would not let him approach in silence as not to disturb her, but he so tries to, anyway. his hands resting atop a golden pommel of a great and holy sword as he slowly comes to take a knee beside her to let her finish her song and prayer in peace.
though unfortunately it seems to startle the boy as much as it startles the singer. lifting leather bound and armour clad hands palm open for a moment, before they come to rest atop his sword once again and he bows, ‘you have a lovely singing voice, señora, i am sorry for interrupting your song,’ monotonous in nature despite how relaxed he holds himself, and yet… he laughs, and it is REAL. he holds a hand out to her, an offering of a greeting as he bows lightly before her, ‘i will not tell anyone i heard you singing, i promise… your secret is safe with me,’
His hand: large, with ｓｃａｒｓ alongside it, then ｓｔａｉｎｓ of the lives lost. Part of the recovery initiative for Ｈａｖｅｎ. Dismissive of the greeting at first, she hardens her ｇｌａｒｅ, but then she turns to him, the ｓｕｎ’ｓ rays from beyond the window refracted onto him perfectly to reveal his face.
Ｐｅｒｃｅｐｔｉｖｅ, as she was, she could feel no ill-bearings in his words. Her hands were cold, but rather ｃｌｅａｎ for someone who had just done a bit of tidying inside． Ｄｒａｇｏｎ ｓｃａｌｅ armor she adorned had seen better days． It was nothing she couldn’t ｒｅｐａｉｒ herself. The scowl had softened. Ｃｙｇｎｕｓ’ hand outstretched to meet his, but hesitated.
❝Ｃｙｇｎｕｓ. Ｃｙｇｎｕｓ Ｖａｎ Ｍａｒｋｈａｍ. That is the name I was given. Might I ask for yours？❞
Leaving the question in the air, her steely eyes met his as she retracted the gesture. Walking over the corner of the room, she picked up a bucket of ｆｒｅｓｈ water and placed it on the stool she had used earlier, then moved it between them. A small slosh of the water inside created a few ｄｒｏｐｌｅｔｓ on the edges.
❝I do ａｐｏｌｏｇｉｚｅ for this might seem...ｒｕｄｅ of me, but I refuse to make contact with any － ｄｉｓｅａｓｅ or ｆａｍｉｎｅ as a result of poor hygiene. Please．．．❞
She motioned for him to use the bucket to rinse off the rustic smell of ｂｌｏｏｄ and grime. Likewise, she used a separate bucket for herself. It was more sanitary.
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