Eyes quickly pass over the room — prompted by the remark, though Caleb does his best to hold onto the present rather than the paranoia, to let his guard slip too quickly if that is what she wants. They dance on a floor, but they may as well be dancing on thinning ice, or rotten wood, where at any moment the ground may be pulled from beneath him — beneath the both of them, and Caleb has no desire to fall together.
The last time he fell, in any way, in front of Astrid, it was into the walls of the Vergessen Sanatorium… eventually. As she comes close, there’s a flicker from the lantern-glow on the scar tissue working its way up her neck — and the maze-like patterns that line her arms and up her wrists as she pulls a little closer.
Equally trained, once, but perhaps not equally trusted. Equally distrusted. ❝ No. ❞ Simple, quiet. ❝ But they are who I have, and it is for them that I come to you, Astrid, not only for a meeting of old ways. You know, I think, it could never simply be that. ❞ And he meets her gaze, just briefly, knowing what they both likely do: what he thinks.
The prickle of her words at his neck is disconcerting, even if she has stepped back slightly due to the sway of the dance, and now it is Caleb who pulls softly back out, gently letting a trace of his fingers work his way over those tattoos. Those speaking things that say so much more than his own scar-latticed arms ever could. ❝ I care very much for what we had, but I cannot entirely trust you, nor would I expect you feel anything but the same for me. But I would not be here if I did not wish for… a fraction of that trust that does remain. ❞
It’s been so long since they were young. The memories of her adolescence are not as clear as they once were, old pains & sorrows hazy through the bittersweet coat of nostalgia. A few moments still shine through: the joy of receiving her acceptance to the Academy. An evening of dancing & drinking at this same hall, unimportant in every way except for the vividness with which she can recall it. One terrible, terrible night in Ikithon’s tower, & the small comfort that came after of kinder arms around her, & the lullaby of a steady heartbeat.
Comforting though the memories of Bren may be, they are just that. Memories of a brilliantly gifted boy she loved & lost half a lifetime ago. She doesn’t know the man in front of her, though his presence has reopened long closed-over wounds. Wounds as old as the scars his fingers brush so gently over. She can’t claim to be the same girl he knew, but Bren — Caleb — seems to understand that much. She thought him to be playing at the same game as her, with the barely present touch of her arm & fleeting glance. But it’s not the same game, not exactly. Because now his cards are on the table, too soon & too much. She’s not sure she knows this one. Or what it might feel like to not play games at all.
Another spin allows her eyes to drift once more, taking stock of this new family he’s found. She believes him, after all she’s seen of the Mighty Nein. Difficult as it is to understand their dynamic, there’s a protectiveness ( a love ) that goes past convenience or a loyalty to a common cause. Far past anything she’s felt for those she’s worked with, save Eadwulf.
She’d do the same for Wulf. A small, quiet part of her would still do the same for Bren. “ You are right not to trust. Not if you wish to keep you & your friends alive. Things are… dangerous here. ”
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