The cavern felt empty without the smudge of unsent light. They huddled around the fire, renewed by another gem. Auron's back prickled, exposed to the open places the unsent girl had tread; nothing haunted them here. Not anymore.
Braska had said nothing since the Sending.
Jecht was restless nearby, sitting with his knees up, hands clasped loose around them, fists clenching and unclenching as he hunched over his half-bent legs. His foot tapped. The fire animated his set face as he scowled at it.
"Are there lots of those things?" he asked at last. Auron looked up, head swiveling towards Braska.
"I'm not sure," Braska said, quietly. "More than Bevelle would like to admit, I think." He smiled to himself, a small sharp edge in it.
"More, huh." Jecht seemed to chew this over; Auron said nothing. The tapping of Jecht's foot stilled. "Why?"
"Some choose to stay. Some," Braska closed his eyes, "want to stay."
"Like that?" and it was Jecht speaking Auron's words for him, things he could not say — and another part of him twisted with a sick counterpoint of hope: yes, like that, my lord, my lord... "It's dangerous, right? Turn into a fiend? Isn't that what all the fuss was about?"
"I think... it's like politics." Braska smiled; Jecht raised an eyebrow. "Best reserved for those who are not tempted by it." He paused; it felt thick, in the air between them. His eyes slid closed again, and open. Braska's hand came up to his chest. His fingers fanned out, palm flat across his breast. "My coward heart," he said, a smile hovering in his lips, in his eyes, sad and pure, the joke at himself entirely sincere, "is too tempted."
Jecht looked away, and Auron couldn't.
The admission of reluctance that Jecht had so sought in all his half-swallowed anger, the need that had cowered in Auron's heart, uncertain and desperate with the faltering of his faith — the words, spoken, at last, cruel and kind at once: it dropped between them like a stone in water, like the caverns' glow, permeating the air, touching their skins like a soft weight. Like a whisper of truth, finally, in their stilted silences, the honesty begun when Braska spoke to the unsent now spilling over to them, a cup overflowing in the dark.
"Coward heart, my ass," Jecht muttered.
Braska snorted, and it turned into a real laugh for a moment and Auron's heart warmed, helplessly. Braska sobered to a chuckle. "It's all right to miss me when I'm gone, you know." And he looked at Auron.
Auron swallowed, and met his lord's eyes.
"Course it is," Jecht huffed.
"Yes," Braska continued softly. "But not before."
My lord...
His breath was loud in his ears. Jecht looked up at him as if startled, understanding flashing in his face.
"My lord..."
Braska shook his head, his voice gentle when he spoke. "Don't apologize. Just—" and Braska swallowed — fear, Auron realized, another gift of honest vulnerability, however bitter to Auron's taste, confessions flowing free between them again "—just... be with me. Here. Now." Braska's voice went dry. "I believe I need it."
Jecht's hand landed on Braska's shoulder. "'Course."
And, "Always," Auron said, his fingers tentative on Braska's arm.
He felt wrung dry.
Always.
I hope for always, still.
Forgive me, my lord, when my heart is not as strong as yours.
Coward Heart [3/3]
The cavern felt empty without the smudge of unsent light. They huddled around the fire, renewed by another gem. Auron's back prickled, exposed to the open places the unsent girl had tread; nothing haunted them here. Not anymore.
Braska had said nothing since the Sending.
Jecht was restless nearby, sitting with his knees up, hands clasped loose around them, fists clenching and unclenching as he hunched over his half-bent legs. His foot tapped. The fire animated his set face as he scowled at it.
"Are there lots of those things?" he asked at last. Auron looked up, head swiveling towards Braska.
"I'm not sure," Braska said, quietly. "More than Bevelle would like to admit, I think." He smiled to himself, a small sharp edge in it.
"More, huh." Jecht seemed to chew this over; Auron said nothing. The tapping of Jecht's foot stilled. "Why?"
"Some choose to stay. Some," Braska closed his eyes, "want to stay."
"Like that?" and it was Jecht speaking Auron's words for him, things he could not say — and another part of him twisted with a sick counterpoint of hope: yes, like that, my lord, my lord... "It's dangerous, right? Turn into a fiend? Isn't that what all the fuss was about?"
"I think... it's like politics." Braska smiled; Jecht raised an eyebrow. "Best reserved for those who are not tempted by it." He paused; it felt thick, in the air between them. His eyes slid closed again, and open. Braska's hand came up to his chest. His fingers fanned out, palm flat across his breast. "My coward heart," he said, a smile hovering in his lips, in his eyes, sad and pure, the joke at himself entirely sincere, "is too tempted."
Jecht looked away, and Auron couldn't.
The admission of reluctance that Jecht had so sought in all his half-swallowed anger, the need that had cowered in Auron's heart, uncertain and desperate with the faltering of his faith — the words, spoken, at last, cruel and kind at once: it dropped between them like a stone in water, like the caverns' glow, permeating the air, touching their skins like a soft weight. Like a whisper of truth, finally, in their stilted silences, the honesty begun when Braska spoke to the unsent now spilling over to them, a cup overflowing in the dark.
"Coward heart, my ass," Jecht muttered.
Braska snorted, and it turned into a real laugh for a moment and Auron's heart warmed, helplessly. Braska sobered to a chuckle. "It's all right to miss me when I'm gone, you know." And he looked at Auron.
Auron swallowed, and met his lord's eyes.
"Course it is," Jecht huffed.
"Yes," Braska continued softly. "But not before."
My lord...
His breath was loud in his ears. Jecht looked up at him as if startled, understanding flashing in his face.
"My lord..."
Braska shook his head, his voice gentle when he spoke. "Don't apologize. Just—" and Braska swallowed — fear, Auron realized, another gift of honest vulnerability, however bitter to Auron's taste, confessions flowing free between them again "—just... be with me. Here. Now." Braska's voice went dry. "I believe I need it."
Jecht's hand landed on Braska's shoulder. "'Course."
And, "Always," Auron said, his fingers tentative on Braska's arm.
He felt wrung dry.
Always.
I hope for always, still.
Forgive me, my lord, when my heart is not as strong as yours.