Jun 15, 2024
the night at thaumazein
the night at thaumazein
9—06: ONEROUS.
adjective: (of a task, duty, or responsibility) involving an amount of effort and difficulty that is oppressively burdensome.
rating: t
characters: archombadin de dzemael, original characters, douceline de dansereau
tags: archombadin/douceline, pre-endwalker, the wol finally gets to take her bf with her on her travels
summary: it was high time he saw things the way she saw it—or at least, saw things up close.
wordcount: 786
“...i’ll need to leave again soon.”
“where?” his brow furrowed. there were many reasons that signaled her lie, her half-truth—regardless of what it was archombadin knew it all to be the same: deception. he would’ve thought her to know better. after all, it hadn’t been so long ago that they—that she—had uncovered the greatest deception in their lives. he could always count on douceline to be sincere, and he liked to think he was one of those who could see right through her when something else was on her mind.
“...dou. what’s happening now?” archombadin couldn’t hide the growing irritation in his voice. it wasn’t meant for her. rather, whatever it was that would inevitably cause her strife once more—these days it seemed like all of eorzea wanted something from her, at the risk of—well, everything. the two of them had discussed her obligations before, face to face and over the linkpearl and through countless letters that he kept locked in a lacquer box she’d sent his way from her time in kugane—
it had to be one of those things easier said than done.
“...sharlayan. i told you about what happened at stillglade fane…” focused were her eyes as she raised her head to look at him once more. this time, he sensed nary a breath of hesitance—the way he wanted it, the way he knew her to be.
“...with leveilleur.” he nodded.
“they have the answers. whether or not they’ll tell us, we’ll find out.” douceline’s breath fell to a hushed whisper as he felt the gravity of her situation, the drum of her heartbeat—and his own mimicked in turn, right down to what weighed heavy on his chest—pure, wretched trepidation. he would have to settle for the faint scent of lavender on dried ink, for the crackle that came with her voice from malms and mountains and seas away.
“...this is a purely diplomatic visit, is it not?” it slips off his tongue too fast for him to think—foolish, utterly foolish, and he knows that—but the repercussions, he thinks, are worth the risk. the rising desperation that suddenly made it difficult for him to even raise his tongue was at a boiling point. archombadin would simply be at home and await their next correspondence, all the while managing the affairs of the dorm and the student body along with the others. he knew this, he’d lived this, and yet—
(he doesn’t realize his gaze has fallen from her dusky-rose hues and onto her pendant—his earring—chipped from her encounter with the crown prince of garlemald at ghimlyt.)
“it’s…meant to be.” she closed her lips and swallowed tight.
“i hope we don’t need to resort to anything more…drastic.” she sighed, knowing full well that they had done so before—and would do so again, if needed.
“do you plan on crossing paths with that man again. sevestre,” his teeth bit the name of the pale-haired hyur who had seemed all too enthusiastic about ending her and the others from the astrologicum.
“i don't plan on it—but i’ve a feeling it will happen regardless…lev—lord rufin said he was a member of the forum.” he blinked, but let it slip, for he was still too occupied with the topic at hand to entertain a tangent.
“i’ve a few choice words—”
“then i simply cannot take you with me.” her sweet lips dipped in a low scowl, that her prominent cupid’s bow became the high-point of her small mouth.
“that’s what you were going to ask me, wasn’t it?” he froze, tongue stilled behind lips slightly parted. in his efforts to try and unravel her thinking, she had turned his tactic against him, right at his moment of vulnerability.
he sighed, the quiet humiliation doing its part to humble him once more. dearest douceline was unchanged in some things—arguably improved in said things, even.
“...i concede.”
“that you will. but i need you to promise me you won’t do anything to jeopardize this. you know it’s—”
“—of the utmost importance.” he nodded, curtly—already he was making a mental note of what to pack, what to delegate, what to tell his parents, the student body—not that it would be difficult to have anyone understand the very serious business of accompanying the warrior of light on her travels. before he hadn’t a proper excuse—much less a proper reason—to join her, but now was the long awaited chance that he simply couldn’t afford to miss.
most importantly, she initiated it—she wanted him there. no matter the reason—whether or not he could contribute in a way that was useful—all of it came second, selfishly so, to her wanting him at her side at those pivotal moments, far away from the land they called home.
in the unholiest of places
& i'll keep you in my prayers
9—03: scale.
rating: T
characters: original characters, douceline de dansereau, archombadin de dzemael
summary: in which douceline reveals a secret.
tags: painfully ishgardian man finds out his gf has scales, acceptance
wordcount: 658
warnings: mentions of past self harm.
.“...This one.” His first and second finger trace the edge of a patch, the pure white scales slightly charred at the edges.
“What happened here?” His eyes, gentle for her and a select few, turn a touch sharper at the implications of what and who could have done this. Douceline’s mouth opens, but the words still before they leave her tongue. Her brows knit, and she swallows--she has to do this, or else all those words she promised him will be as empty as she fears them to be.
“...I--tried,” It’s a start, though the way his eyes widen down at her doesn’t help her one bit.
“to...get rid of them.” Archombadin grimaces when the meaning of her words seeps in deep, and deeper. There was a reason he tried so fervently not to think of all she had experienced in the time they all thought her dead.
“As you can see,” She breathes a laugh, bitter and cold.
“it didn’t work.” In fact, it made it worse, she wanted to say, but held back for his sake more than her own--she had made him uncomfortable enough, not only bearing witness to but feeling what had been deemed sin by scripture, and false doctrine as some of it may be, there are things that simply don’t go away.
“...Whatever it may be. You’ve done more than enough to prove you’re still--” He stops, hesitant with his next choice of words, hesitant to let her go.
“...am I?” Instead, she fills up the few seconds he leaves lingering in the air between them, her hovering hand falling back to her side, and to keep herself from suddenly shivering she uses her free hand to brace it. One would think that, given all that had happened--all that she had risked life and limb to see through to the very end, such doubts would fall away like the snow in spring.
But still, they remained—in the way Lebrassoir never turned back to look at them while being led away, in the way Cyr vowed never to set foot in the city as long as he lived, in the way her mother could only bear to look at her for a mere few seconds before hastily turning away.
If these few things so near and dear to her heart were left broken, unfixed—had it all been for nothing at all?
“You are.”
It’s his voice that breaks her out of her reverie, and she blinks once, twice, turning her eyes from the floor at their feet to look up at him, returning his gaze. He looks so much stronger than usual—in their debates, and all the others through which he had looked down on their peers in his false entitlement, Douceline realized how much he really had been mimicking a certain breed of their elders, the staunch Fundamentalists, set in their ways of superiority. Had it not been for the discovery of Lebrassoir’s plot—and the unraveling of everything that all of them had known to be true—that the look in his eyes began to change, chiseled into a strength all his own.
“You are still Douceline. You can change, as I and so many others have, and still remain who you are.” Usually he would flush at such sentimentality, especially if it was coming from his own tongue—but for now, there was a truth that needed to be said, a comfort that he had a good feeling she was desperately in need of.
“...Sometimes it is as necessary as you say. Painful, but necessary.” Not unlike the Halonic discipline in which he’d taken years to fervently know and abide by.
“But in the end, much good came out of it.” He gives her a smile--kind but knowing. Knowing that it was something she couldn’t argue her way out of.
“And if it’s the Inquisition you fear--”
“Not them. No longer,” She laughs, shaking her head.
“I know they know better.”
9—24: illustrious.
rating: M
characters: original characters, douceline de dansereau, jannequinard de durendaire
summary: jannequinard is tired of wishing.
tags: sappy janne, post-shb, pre-ew
wordcount: 913
“you’re beautiful, darling—don’t you know how beautiful you are?”
in a tender touch he took her chin between thumb and forefinger, tilting it ever so slightly so that she looked up at him. fury, how he’d missed that face—the loveliest doe eyes and the sweetest blossom-colored mouth, the gold in her hair shining brighter than ever before in the midst of the light copper-rose.
and that isn’t a good thing, he knows—but she is beautiful nonetheless, and even more beautiful because of it.
“that hardly matters—“ the way she smiles awkwardly and tries to steer her gaze elsewhere tells him her mind is somewhere beyond the realm of romanticism (sincere romanticism, mind you) and mired again in a pit of her ever present, ever-growing worries.
and this was, in fact, a problem—by his standard, of course. others were quick to lose interest in whatever topic of conversation he’d attempted, but she was not one of them. dou was attentive to a fault, and he knew for a fact how she lost herself so easily in the things she truly burned for. and he—whether by lackadaisical words or skilled hands—was one of those things.
yet things were beginning to cloud her mind more often as of late. of course she confided in him, but surely there must be more or else she surely would have been less fixated on those and more fixated on him. a labor of love, truly…but he could never find himself growing frustrated with her. no, if anything, her worries were compounded onto his own failures—and he had seen them reflected, time and time again, in the tremor of her lips, in the weary dullness of her eyes.
“…let it matter.” with the pad of his thumb he drew a line from her chin to the tip of her heart-shaped face—and she exhaled, soft but deep, relishing in his touch so near.
“i…am aware it may hold less importance than…er, the other things—“ her lips quirked in a smile as he failed to recall said things—heroic things, he assumed? saving the day? ah, well to his advantage, she probably didn’t want to hear them repeated as much as they already were.
“...at the behest of a man as selfish as i. please.” what he wanted more as a neutral utter came out as more of the helpless, desperate lilt—and he prays she doesn’t see him as anything less.
(she doesn’t. she never does.)
“alright.” her answer surprises him, though it wouldn’t be the first—and from above where her head rested against a fluffed pillow she grins wide, a smile she reserves for him and daresay no one else—for who else made her feel as comfortable with showing the petit fangs of her so-called transformation?
“if only for you, i will.” well—he’s flattered, deeply so—and though it isn’t the answer he wanted, expected to hear, it will have to do. it was simply that douceline knew him beyond the neverending monologues and pathetic charms he had at display, and for all the compliments he received from many a former fling this one had a gravity he found intimidating to accept.
but douceline, darling douceline—for her, he would try, and try again.
“you will think of me, then?” he smiles warmer, wider, when she sinks down further from the pillow and by natural instinct he follows suit, hovering a bit above her with his forearms on the mattress and her head in-between.
“when you wake in the morning and look in the mirror. or after you’ve bathed, and dressing…”
“i think of you then and more.” she giggles when he brings his lips to the pearls of her throat scales, white and shimmering by the morning light. they’d gone to bed so hastily the night prior, the curtains were left undrawn and the servants were surely not to enter his chambers in the wee hours of the morning—but all was well, for his haste and their courtesy brought him such a sight to behold.
“indulge me, then.” he mumbles from a smirk, and with a soft exhale and the subtle length of her finger-claw trailing down his chest, she does.
“well…i think of you whenever i look at the sky. whenever i see a star. whenever i feel alone–and don’t want to be, of course,” of course, for she was a private creature out of habit, and preferred to keep her distance from the company of too many people.
“whenever i go to bed without you at my side, i pretend you’re there.” his kisses cease when he senses her voice grow smaller, smaller—like she’s become afraid again, all of a sudden, and he’s left waiting with his cheek at the bottom-border of her ribcage, nose against the lower curve of her breast.
“...there are nights i can’t sleep, but pretending you’re with me still helps.” there’s a quiet insistence in the small of her voice, as if she’s trying to prove something to him. when it dawns on him what that something is, his heart swells and his eyes burn, all at once—because it’s one of the many ways she’s professing her love for him.
“...should i indulge you further?” she whispers, and even without looking he can feel the smile in her voice. at this his rears over her once again, before bringing his lips to hers in a sugary, velvet-smooth kiss that even he finds it difficult to part.
“it’s high time i did the indulging, don’t you think?”
9—07: speculate.
rating: T
characters: original characters, douceline de dansereau, archombadin de dzemael, jannequinard de durendaire
tags: polyamory (jannequinard/douceline/archombadin), pre-endwalker
summary: part of her wants to believe she’s not the reason why they’re coming along in the first place. the other part of her wishes for nothing more.
wordcount: 2920
And so it’s come to this.
Douceline, the Warrior of Light, the Savior of Ishgard, the Pillars’ own prodigal daughter—was to be accompanied by not only one, but two scholars of Ishgard: one, a son of the High Houses and current prefect of Saint Endalim’s Scholasticate, Archombadin de Dzemael—and the other, another (thankfully) lesser heir, belonging to House Durendaire, Jannequinard of the Athenaeum Astrologicum.
Neither took no for an answer in spite of her attempts at rebuffing them, and so she eventually conceded, while her fellow scions looked on with varying levels of amusement and exasperation (the latter notably belonging to a certain snow-haired dragoon, arms crossed and back pressed to a pillar while trying to keep the two lalafells at bay with their pestering questions as to what he knew of these two men).
Of course neither man intended to be a hindrance to their cause. Both were fervent in what they could bring to the table. Jannequinard’s was perhaps the most obvious, given his years spent studying (regardless of how productively he’d spent them) in Old Sharlayan, he would be a boon to their group in the know-hows and social etiquette of their destination.
Archombadin sought to have a more diplomatic role, as one of the best minds the Scholasticate had to offer, and while his role was more subtle in contributing to their efforts, he—and a few vocal individuals in the House of Lords—wished for diplomatic relations between the two nations. Archombadin knew it would be a daunting task, for the Sharlayans chose to be removed from the world stage by policy, if their motto wasn’t enough proof of their stance. But clearly, it was the outsiders that needed to act first in their case—at the very least, some sort of trade or recognition could be had, and no matter how miniscule of a success they would achieve, he was adamant on being there to see it happen.
(Such a speech was one he’d given on three different occasions: one, to himself in his bedroom—two, to his elders at the dinner table—and three, to Douceline and the scions, under the Fortemps gazebo).
And how did she feel about all of this? Douceline divided her time between the Rising Stones and her home city, assisting in whatever ways she could (which were many, and for that her spare time suffered) while fulfilling whatever obligations she had promised on the way back and forth. Who would’ve known that in the approximate week she’d spent away at the Source could leave so much unattended business, so many requests-bordering-on-demands, all awaiting her attention.
The people that knew her, loved her best, saw her less and less, and whatever chances she had to spend time with them were never enough.
So she supposed that having them with her could be a blessing in disguise. Douceline had revealed to them both the extent of the light’s damage on her body: the way her formerly pure-white scales were now veined in gold, and how that gold crept all the way through to the under-layer of her rose-gold hair. Bared under direct sunlight, Douceline shimmered and she hated it. As if the dragon blood that had been forced upon her years ago, bringing with it the scales and sharp canines had been a foretaste compared to what agony the light’s corruption had been to her.
And of course they still took her in with open arms (or in Archombadin’s case, a tight squeeze of his gloved hand around her own) and asked of her safety, her well being. For even though she had been home at the moment, both men were smart enough to know not to depend merely on what they saw. After all, she had only been gone for a relatively short amount of time, only to return physically and mentally changed.
And she answered them, elaborated for them, about the things she couldn’t say abroad, alone, or even amongst her other companions. About how she didn’t know whether or not she was doing the right thing. About whether or not she could do anything to help.
About how she was actually very, very afraid.
(Part of her wants to believe she’s not the reason why they’re coming along in the first place. The other part of her wishes for nothing more.)
Douceline raised her head, blinking as the doors of the Scholasticate library were thrown open.
Jannequinard, with his feet at a hurried pace under his alb, bore a widespread grin as he approached the two at the long table.
“I say, if we’re to work amongst one another, we ought to all meet together in one place.” Dou offered him a soft smile over an open book, while her pale-haired companion grumbled something that most certainly wasn’t on the page he was facing.
“Sorry, Janne—I was just helping Chomby with something.”
“As is your wont, dearest!” The so-called astrologian’s praise caused Archombadin to clench his jaw, irritation spiking another notch higher. He could never comprehend what she saw in him. Insufferable, incompetent and incessantly talkative—at the most, he could only respect the fact that she cared for him. And unfortunately, her feelings were requited in full.
It takes all the restraint he has not to slam the book shut.
“If you need her for something—”
“As a matter of fact, I’ll be needing you both.” The Durendaire’s lithe fingers are on the edge of her seat from behind, aiding her to rise from the chair.
The prefect quirked an eyebrow in suspicion.
“Both.” He echoed, feeling the little strength in him seep away as he faced the man in full, grim scowl meeting a widening grin, with Douceline standing befuddled in the middle.
“Both. No time like the present for tea and collaboration.”
“I said I’d teach you both a thing or two,” Janne lowered his teacup, meeting the matching plate with a delicate clink.
“because you are both ever so dear to me—and with your well-being comes the well-being of our fellow countrymen!” He took a deep sigh, elated in the apparent righteousness of this odd arrangement all three of them found themselves in. Archombadin tried to focus on his reflection in the tea while Douceline nibbled on a checkerboard cookie, while the bespectacled astrologian continued his monologue:
“And to have you both at my side on my glorious return to the city, is a privilege I wouldn’t dare deny!”
“I’m glad you’ll be there too, Janne.” Dou parted from the lip of her cup with a tender smile, the tenderness evident all the way up to her eyes.
“I was talking to Alisaie, actually. About what it’s like…”
“Ask away, dearest! As your escort it’s only my bounden duty to be of service in whatever way I can.” And they carried on, while the fair-haired Dzemael attempted to fill his mind with other things. A handwritten list he was in the middle of finishing for Theomocent and the other prefects to use as a guide in his absence. A mental note to remember what items to forward to his servant to have brought as part of his necessities for their upcoming trip. And of course, whatever there was left to tell Lebrassoir next he visited, even if the door was closed and his former friend’s still turned the opposite direction...
“...but that is mere speculation. Archombadin, my friend, what say you?”
The man in question blinked back into reality at the mention of his name. “We were talking about whether or not claw jewelry could be weaponized.” Douceline, the savior, elaborates before Jannequinard can guess that he wasn’t paying attention.
“...I suppose.” His brow knit in quiet contemplation, thumb and forefinger once again around the teacup handle.
“Though it would depend how much of a claw it would resemble...there is a difference between aesthetic and functionality.” Being the son of a heritage credited with the foremost skill and resources in developing their city’s architecture, he should know.
“Oh, there’s no need to consider whether or not they're pleasing to the eye!” Jannequinard blinked, as if perplexed at his companion’s assumption.
“They wind the fingers intricately. Like lacework. But with metals--gold and silver, I should imagine. Bronze is much too heavy for something on the fingers, no?”
“But Janne, you can use it as a weapon if they’re sharp enough, right?” Knowing all too well that her lover was prone to wandering off topic, Dou leaned in closer to bring him back to the matter at hand.
“Like the Ixali! Or the Amalj’aa. Or the dragons, even!”
“Yes, of course! And we all know what damage they--” A screech of wrought iron against stone pavement, and Archombadin’s gaze shifts from the tea to the table in an instant. His eyes widened when he saw Douceline slumped from her chair, hand shielding her face and knees failing, sinking into a circle of rose-red fabric on the cold stone beneath her. Jannequinard stooped to her level first, hand on her back in both a protective and comforting hold, the merriment of his voice falling to a hushed, gentler tone.
Bending to his knee, Archombadin cursed between clenched teeth--she’d complained of these sudden headaches happening more often, and absurdly requested for him not to worry. He could only guess how worse they had become since her return from that realm, where she claimed that a week in Eorzea felt like months in the place she’d been to.
“H-here, darling--don’t worry, we’ll take care of you--” Jannequinard hoisted her up, one arm against her back and the other beneath her legs, where her skirts bunched thick and crumpled as he rose to his feet, sending Archombadin a look of what the silver-eyed seminarian could only perceive as badly-masked fear. In any other situation, he would’ve taken it for a sign of weakness--something he could dwell on with smug delight once alone. But now the Dzemael son wouldn’t dare, for he felt that same fear mirrored in the way he shuddered, lips parted in quivering breaths as he followed him back to the Belfry.
He sent a linkpearl message home explaining that he would be delayed.
Now, he and Jannequinard remained in the sitting alcove, not far from the guest room where a house chirurgeon examined the sleeping Douceline. Archombadin couldn’t find it in him to simply sit, though he stood perfectly still compared to the maddening pace at which the other man strode to, back and forth as far as the walls would allow him.
“Fine, fine, she’ll be perfectly fine.” He uttered under a shaky breath, earning him a scowl from his sharp-eyed guest, who remained cross-armed and back to the wall adjacent to the window.
“We have the finest chirurgeons under our employ!” As Janne ran a hand through his slicked red hair, Archombadin knew he could have been arguing with no one but himself. Not that he expected anything else of how Janne would react under pressure.
“...But, who am I to talk?” Jannequinard’s silver hues suddenly weighed with something he hadn’t seen in them before. Remorse? Regret? The Archombadin of the past would be reeling in ill-gained joy at seeing the black sheep of the Durendaires so beaten, so dejected. But now he was genuinely concerned for whatever it could be that ailed him. Not that he was no longer irritated with the man--but seeing Douceline collapse and being able to do nothing but wait behind a closed door for the chirurgeons to do their work left him a tad unsettled, for the lack of a better word.
“...All I can offer is what I’ve seen and done. Nothing by the lectures, or the texts I was given. Astrology is an art that can heal, and yet all I could do was hurry her inside and have someone else do it for me.” Jannequinard’s head felt heavier by burdens of his past failures coming back to haunt him once again, the words of his elders and numerous detractors rearing their ugly heads and bringing back a sting to a wound he long believed was on the mend.
“What if--no, no I can’t--” He stops himself, stumbling into a cold and bitter laughter, his hand finding its way to his forehead.
“...I can’t allow myself to--” Archombadin can do nothing but listen, blinking in confusion and interest at what could be going through the astrologian’s mind at this very moment.
“It’s...the next time. We won’t be here. You know,” Jannequinard licked his lips and swallowed hard, facing the carpet of the floor at their feet.
“...we’ll be in Sharlayan soon. We’ll have our friends, yes--but we’ll have our fair share of enemies, too. Heavens, maybe more of a share than we can chew--not again, no, I can’t-”
“It’s perfectly understandable to have doubts.” Archombadin tries his best to reassure the man, who looked on edge of a breakdown. And he wasn’t looking forward to carrying him, especially when the man was in his own house.
“We’ll be going somewhere unfamiliar. Maybe to you it is, but we have reason to believe that much has changed since then. Or have you not paid heed to what the scions were discussing the other day?” He couldn’t help himself from falling back onto sarcasm once again, though this time it seemed to work a small bit, as Jannequinard nodded--though it seemed more to reassure himself back into a relatively healthier mindset than it was an answer to Archombadin’s question.
“Yes...yes, you’re right.” A trembling sigh, and though no smile appeared, the light in his eyes was a tad less dimmed than before when he turned to look at his companion.
“I just--I must become stronger. Though I’ve wasted years, it was thanks to the efforts of Douceline and Leveva, along with others that I’ve begun to truly learn and practice to my benefit--and more importantly, to that of others.”
(With every word he seems to encourage himself, and perhaps that non stop tongue of his can be good for something, Archombadin thinks.)
“The stakes we faced were high. But because we overcame them, we are braver--stronger, because of it. And we’ll need to do even more of those things--and others--in order to face what awaits us in Sharlayan.”
“I plan to do the same. Am in the middle of it, actually.” Could they really have found a rare plane of common ground? Wonders never cease.
“You use...the tomes, yes?” Janne blinked.
“Yes--amongst other things. But primarily the tomes. Grimoires…”
“I heard something about summoning soulkin. Is that the sort you do?” Archombadin cleared his throat, shoulders relaxing. At least they were on a less emotionally taxing topic...and one he could better contribute to.
And so he did well to explain the main points, starting broad and painfully narrowing to the finer details, enough for the other man to remain on track without going off on a tangent. Both had lost track of time when the door finally opened, and the chirurgeon reassured them of her state. To their relief, Douceline would only need rest and sleep, water and food.
And of course, someone to make sure she was recovering just fine, though Jannequinard was generous to allow him to stay for the night.
Late into the night, she was yet to awaken.
Changed into sleep clothes, both men lay as borders to her sides: Archombadin on her left and closer to the wall, Jannequinard on the right facing the door. The three flames on the candlelabra flickered feebly as the still-conscious houseguest flipped idly through a borrowed book he’d found on the shelf, though the contents of the text itself dulled with Douceline’s sleeping face ever in his peripheral vision. Archombadin was ever wary of any subtle changes in her condition, and refused to act as the second pair of eyes while Janne had one arm lazily draped atop her waist, eyes half-lidded not from fatigue, but of an odd comfort. Archombadin knew that he must have been awaiting her all this time, as well--before, her visits to Ishgard had been few and far-between, and now they all had the extraordinary chance to finally come along with her.
Though not from the best of circumstances, this was time he valued. All three of them, having found mutual agreement and definition of what exactly was between them, could find a source of comfort in one another. Before all this happened, Archombadin could have never imagined himself in such an arrangement, but he was beginning to see what good could come of it, and what good he could do beyond the roles he’d defined for himself.
When her mouth twitched at the corner, both men’s hearts practically stopped.
One, two, five and ten seconds later, her eyes failed to open; but her mouth opened in a wide, wide ‘o’, breathing a content yawn as she tucked her head back into the pillow, fingers loosely bent against the fabric, the rise and fall of her chest at a steady rate.
Janne gave him a knowing, quiet smile as he shifted closer up against her, but much to the pale-haired heir’s surprise he nudged her closer to where he lay.
“‘Tis not every day.” Short and sweet, for both knew the implication far too well than they’d like to.
With the candles snuffed out, Archombadin allowed his fingers to brush ever so slightly against her own, for sleeping mere ilms away from her face was already more than he could ask for.