Private Tales The Storm With No End

A private roleplay only for those invited by the first writer
Stasya

Stasya

Thunder of Thanasis
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Seriously Likeable I
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"You shouldn't be here, Stasya." Faye gave her a concerned expression.

Stasya tied the straps of her apron around her waist before tying it secure with a knot. "Did Nadya say something?" She asked in a flat tone.

"No, Cullen did."

Stasya frowned slightly. She forgot not everyone knew her because of her sister, but Cullen too had friends. Few of them, but there was a reason for that. Faye did not care about what the Marked Ones were guilty of. She had set aside her own opinions in order to do her work, and Stasya had heard some vile things aimed at the gorgeous medic for even helping dress a wound or wash out any infections with alcohol. She had wished to be as stoic as Faye Valimir one day.

"Of course..." She exhaled, giving Faye a weak smile. "I am here because no one thought to change my schedule. I received no amendment of where I was to be stationed today... and thus, here I am."

Faye chuckled and placed a hand at Stasya's back. Ushering her apprentice down the hall, basket of glass vials clinking softly from the movement. "Please... Of course I was not going to change your schedule around just because of a boy you may fancy." Stasya's cheek turned pink. "Not that I am saying I approve, he is still your patient." The older woman winked at Stasya.

"And the trial begins at the end of this week." Stasya sighed.

"Yes... the Princess granted you and I both leave... but Talorgan is on an expedition in the wilds and I do not like to sit idly by at home on my own. If you would like to take a weeks le—"

"No!" She blurted, pausing in their walk. Stasya could not have left home fast enough.

By the time she had gotten home and remembered she had a shift overnight with Faye, she half expected to be caught going down the stairs. Instead, the door to the front sitting room was slammed shut. Stasya froze, fearful that she had indeed been caught, but then she heard Cullen's voice.

Oh. Stasya knew what her sister and Cullen were going to do, and it will take a lot to wash that thought from her mind.

No one had said a thing about her work being cancelled, but she was not about to stay at home and hear her sister have.... a good time.... with Cullen.

"Cullen and Nadya are home..." She winced. Faye laughed, grinned wickedly at the thought but spared the Lady of anything crude to comment.

"Right, well... your patient cannot be cleared to transfer to a cell until his health is strong again. Not because we are being nice, you will find that he has developed a fever. Happened while we were on the flight back here..." Faye turned the conversation back to Stasya's training.

"Oh, then you would have given him the draught to help him sleep, which then will aide the herbs to help his fever come down." Stasya began to move them both back down towards the infirmary. "Perhaps it is time to check his response? See if his condition is improving?"

Faye beamed at her with pride, "Precisely. I made sure to time his resting periods. The draught wears off after a few hours."
 
Mylo stirred, his body restless beneath the thin blanket as fever dreams tangled with memories. He muttered something low under his breath, his lips barely moving. His chest rose and fell too fast, sweat slicking his temples and soaking into the collar of his shift. The manacle around his wrist clinked softly against the cot as his arm jerked.

“No...” the word tore weakly from his throat. His brow furrowed, muscles tightening as if bracing for impact all over again.

Fire and lightening cracked the sky, the deafening roar of his father’s dragon before teeth the size of blades clamped around him in white-hot pain. The rush of air as he fell seemed endless, and his body twitched as though the ground still rushed up to meet him.

Mylo jolted, his breathing hitched, a pained sound escaping him before he went still again. For a moment, his eyes opened, unfocused, clouded by fever and confusion. The light of the infirmary stabbed through the haze, and he blinked slowly, trying to make sense of where he was.

He didn’t know if she was there, or if he was only seeing the ghost of her from his dreams, but her name left his lips like a plea, his hand straining slightly against the restraint as he tried to reach out.

Then his strength gave way, and he slumped back against the pillow, chest rising fast, sweat gleaming on his skin as the fever kept its hold.
 
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Stasya was alone in his room.

Hours had passed and the sun had begun to rise and filled the room with it's bright light. The fever was being difficult, even with the necessary treatments to help it lift.

And so Stasya insisted she keep his skin cool with damp cloths.

She had been on her way back into the room with a pail of cold water when she saw Mylo stir, almost dropped it when he spoke her name. Her name. It was hard not to start becoming attached. With more enthusiasm now, she wrung the cloths with the cool water and sat on his bed to dab at his forehead. "You should continue to rest, Mylo. I will be here when you wake." She promised.

"I remember the first time I became scared of the hard rain and damaging storms. I was... I would like to say seven years old, and I would find better hiding places than our family cat. I needed to hide, but that never worked for me. Until my sister kept me company. She taught me how to endure it, to anticipate something I had no control over." She wiped the cloth over his brow, slowly and gently. Stasya wished he would open his eyes so she may remind herself what shade they were. She remembered them in a darker setting, and yet if they were captivating then, they would reach beyond that here and now.

"If you wake up, break this fever, I will happily teach it to you."
 
Mylo exhaled slowly, the tension easing from his limbs as the fever’s grip loosened in her presence. The sound of her voice anchored him, so soft, distant, yet familiar. The cool press of the cloth against his burning skin drew a shuddering sigh from his chest, and for the first time in hours, his breathing evened.

He lingered somewhere between sleep and waking, the warmth of fever and the coolness of her care blurring the edges of his thoughts. When his hazel eyes finally cracked open, light poured in, stinging, and he winced, his lashes fluttering until the world stopped spinning. Then he saw her.

For a heartbeat, Mylo could only stare. Her face, framed in gold from the morning sun, was close enough that he could see the faint sheen of worry in her eyes.

“Angel…” he rasped, the word slipping out before sense could stop it. His cracked lips curved faintly, "..so beautiful…”

The fever still clung to him, muddling the boundary between dream and reality. His hand moved on instinct, wanting to reach her, to prove she was real, but the sudden rattle of the manacle at his wrist stopped him. The sound dragged him back.

Reality settled in his chest like a stone. His gaze drifted down to the chain, then back to her. The confusion, the hurt, the quiet shame of being bound there, all flashed briefly in his eyes. But when he looked at her again, his voice softened, barely more than a whisper.

“A-apologies, milady...” he croaked, grimacing as he tried to sit up..
 
Stasya set aside the damp cloth to hold his hand that reached for her. She smiled down at him, going to check his temperature in several spots to ensure he was no longer feverish. "Good. It has been receding for some time now, I am glad you have woken."

For the moment, she did not bring the attention to the restraints he wore. Her hands ran smoothly over his, and the urge to kiss each of his knuckles made her cheeks heat up. She cleared her throat. "No need to apologise."

They were alone in this room, still. Faye had said she needed some rest and went to find a quiet room to do so, and Stasya lifted her eyes to meet his groggy gaze. "You had me worried for some time. When I heard you came down with a fever..." her hands tightened around his and that urg to kiss his hand crept back in. His hand could rise, and she could lower her lips...

She stared down to his hand. "Did you have a nice sleep? Dream of any dragons from my book?" Holding his hand... seemed so natural. As if this was a normal she would be content with.
 
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Her hand was small in his, delicate and soft and real. It felt like something sacred, something he had no right to touch. Mylo’s fingers twitched faintly beneath hers, the roughness of his skin against her softness a cruel reminder of what he was, of what he had done. She held him anyway. As though the iron shackle binding his wrist did not exist. As though he were not a traitor already condemned.

He swallowed hard, throat dry, the guilt thick enough to choke on. Still, he couldn’t look away from her.

“Only of storms and falling…” he murmured hoarsely as she asked of his dreams, a shadow of a smile flickering at his lips. The words were barely sound, his voice thin from fever and memory alike. His gaze lingered on her face, tracing the curve of her jaw, the gentle crease of worry in her brow, the faint pink at her cheeks that he knew wasn’t from the heat of the room.

Gods, she was beautiful. So beautiful it made something in his chest ache, a deep, quiet ache that had nothing to do with fever.

“Thank you,” he breathed, his voice a rasp of sincerity. “For taking care of me.. Stasya…”

Her name felt strange and sweet on his tongue. His eyes dropped for a moment to their joined hands, his thumb brushing against hers as if trying to memorise the shape of her kindness.

“But you shouldn’t be here,” he whispered, forcing the words out despite how much they pained him. “I don’t want you tangled in this. I don’t…” His eyes lifted to hers again, fever-bright, desperate. “My life isn’t one you should be anywhere near.."

Because even as he said it, the selfish part of him wanted her to stay, to speak again, to keep holding his hand just a little longer, to let him pretend, for this fragile sliver of morning, that he was worthy of her touch.
 
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She let out a soft sigh, and gave Mylo a sad smile. "Why must everyone tell me that? As if I do not have a choice in what I choose to do."

Emboldened now, Stasya stole a kiss onto the back of his hand. Quick and fleeting, it sent a thrill through her that made her smile. "I have always made the right decisions when it comes to people, and Mylo, despite the family you were born into, you are still good." She held his hand between hers and gave them a reassuring squeeze.

"I do not wish to live a live just as a Lady of an old and minor house. I want to do something, to be proud of something I chose to do... and I am doing that by learning how to heal people. There are things in this world I have witnessed since I was a girl, and I watched my sister fight against old and stiff rules and the people that keep them. Mylo... I do not see you as a criminal. I see you as someone that has a heart too good for the world he has seen..." But Stasya could not help but smile and laugh.

"Gods, here I am denying the good you see in me and telling you of the good I see in you." Her laughter bubbled out from her once again. Stasya exhaled slowly and stared at him.

"You cannot scare me away so easily. I am tougher than I look."
 
Gods, his heart nearly stopped when her lips brushed against the back of his hand; soft, fleeting, impossibly gentle. For a moment, he could only stare, caught somewhere between disbelief and awe. Mylo... Mylo... The way she said his name, and that laugh, that soft, melodic chime rippled through the heaviness in his chest and scattered it like sunlight through mist.

“I can see that,” he murmured, breath catching somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “And I’ve never been so glad of anything.”

He smiled then, truly smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling with warmth that felt almost foreign after so long without it. Somehow, she made it possible, made him forget the weight of chains and the shadow of what awaited him.

“If no one else in this world ever sees me, Anastasia,” he whispered, “it will be enough to know that you do. That you think me worthy of forgiveness.” His gaze softened, searching her face as though to etch it into memory. “If the gods saw fit to send you to me, even at the end, then perhaps they are kinder than I ever believed.”

He fell quiet, his brow furrowing slightly, the faintest flicker of surprise crossing his expression as the realisation settled in. “I’m not afraid,” he said quietly, almost to himself. His thumb brushed weakly against her fingers, his voice rough but steady. “Not while you’re here.”
 
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Stasya liked the way he looked to her. It reminded her of the early days of when Nadya and Cullen looked at each other. Back then, they were too clueless of what they felt for one another.

She knew better now, knew how to recognise that look. Stasya had been hoping some of her suitors would wear that same expression when they looked to her. That they would look at her and imagine it were just the two of them. The silence that fell naturally in this moment was not awkward, nor was it the death of it. Without words, they did not need to speak what they thought of one another.

For Stasya, that was enough.

"Well..." one last chaste kiss to his hand before she let it go. "I do have to check how well you are responding to the medicines and take note." She smiled, standing up to fetch the form and board.

"How are you feeling? Groggy? That would be the tea I helped you drink earlier. Meant to help relax your body for rest, but waking up with it would feel like the morning after heavy drinkkng." She smiled, coming to stand beside his bed. "I have never drank more than the one cup I am allowed at dinner... so I do not know of that is a feeling you are experiencing." Stasya chuckled. Conversation with him was easy. Although she did not have trouble talking to others, the ease of speaking with Mylo was a comfort to know.
 
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Gods, not just one kiss, but two. The ghost of her lips lingered on his skin long after she’d pulled away, burning there like a memory he’d never let fade. Another smile, too, bright and unguarded, and he could swear the gods were mocking him with how blessed he felt, lying half dead and still convinced he might be the luckiest bastard barely alive.

His eyes, still heavy with exhaustion, tracked her as she moved about the room. Even the smallest gesture, the sweep of her hair as she turned, the careful grace in her hands, held him captive.

“You… helped me drink tea?” he rasped, his throat dry and voice roughened with the remains of fever. Heat crept up his neck and into his cheeks. Gods, had he been so out of it? What if he had he said something foolish while delirious? Had he embarrassed himself in front of her?

But then she was speaking again, and every thought scattered like ash in the wind. He could only listen, lulled by the melody of her voice.

“I do feel a little… woozy,” he admitted, words slow and slurred around the edges. “And a little numb.” His lips curved faintly, hazel eyes finding her again. “More drunk than hungover.” Drunk on far more than tea.

He hesitated, a hoarse chuckle escaping him.. “Don’t make me better too quickly, though…” He let his head sink back into the pillow, still watching her. “I’d like to stay here a while.”
 
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Stasya let out a laugh.

"Such a conflict I am faced with!" She delighted, and pulled a chair to his bedside. Lowering herself onto it, Staysa laid her board on her lap and wrote down her notes. "You see, I am a perfectionist. I will always find a way to improve. As much as I enjoy your company here, I do wish to see you well. I must see to that need of being seen as competent in my studies." And like her sister, Faye Valimir was a women that wielded strength and confidence in her own way.

Surrounded by so many accomplished people... Stasya wanted to be like them already.

"The woozy effect will subside over the morning... a few more hours perhaps." Another reference to her notes, and Stasya continued to speak. "The drunken feeling I can help. Some water and a light meal shall help the medications ease a little."

The bedside table had a cup and a pitcher of water ready. She poured him his cup, half full, and offered it to him. "It is best you keep up your fluids, so be sure to drink plenty of water."
 
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He had no right to feel this content, not here, not now, but the feeling rooted itself in his chest all the same. Mylo sighed deeply, his tired smile still etched upon his lips, dimpling faintly at his cheek as he looked at her. Gods, she made it too easy to forget where he was, to forget the pain and trouble he was in.

“You… enjoy my company?” he asked, voice roughened by exhaustion and a trace of smugness that couldn’t quite hide the way his heart flipped at the thought.

He chuckled under his breath, glancing toward the ceiling for a beat before his gaze found hers again. “Well, I wouldn’t want to make you look incompetent. But then...I was almost torn in two by a dragon. That’s got to be a painfully slow recovery, no?”

He tried to lift the chained hand for the water and sighed in frustration as it pulled taut with a clink, instead using the other to take the cup from her. The effort of propping himself up on one elbow made his muscles tremble faintly, but he still managed a crooked grin before taking a careful sip.

When his eyes drifted to her notes, mischief flickered behind his lashes. “What are you writing about me?” he asked, chin tipping toward the board. “Foolish, obnoxious… impossibly handsome?” His lips curved into a teasing smirk, though the warmth in his eyes betrayed the jest.
 
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Stasya got caught in his crooked smile. She was sure this was his trap, how he always got his girls, and she too was useless to a power like this. Her eyes dropped to his lips, watching him speak, and her cheeks flamed. "No..." a nervous laugh escaped her. She averted her gaze, too tempted to inspect those lips up close and do something foolish.

This was a professional setting, at least, that was what she should stick with. If Faye or another medic came in, and Stasya was... getting lost looking at his pretty face, how would that reflect on her?

"I was writing your symptoms. To keep track of how you feel at different times of the day." Stasya could not keep the smile from twitching at her lips. "That way when someone checks in on you after my shift, they can see if you have improved or not." The smile turned sad. There was only a couple of hours left before then, and she would have to return home. If she went to the family home here in the city, Nadya would eventually come looking.

Stasya did not like this idea... this feeling... that she should tread carefully around this boy.

She watched him again, and some of that worry furrowing between her brows lessened.

"Mylo... I want to help you in this trial. Will you... let me? I can find out a way to make sure you are not... given the same fate as your brothers." Her hand reached out, hesitating at the side of his cot. "I hate to sound naïve, but... I know you are a good man. You do not deserve to serve the same sentencing as your brothers. I heard what they said about you, how they... they were so cruel to you, even when they lost." Her hand moved again, clutching his hand and dragging it down to rest their clasped hands on the soft sheets. "The Princess had one of her Gilded Wings ride my sister's squad. Princess Orissa believes in fair judgement, and if you wish for me to do so... I can find time to ask for an audience with her. Explain... ask for her help or guidance."

She wanted to see Mylo freed. To have him cleared of any criminal charges, and perhaps... Cullen and Nadya could stop deterring her from seeing Mylo.
 
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He was studying her right back. The way her lashes fluttered when she tried to avoid his gaze, the way her voice trembled only slightly when she spoke his name. He was more than certain that she looked far, far better than he did. He had dark circles beneath his eyes, the pallor of fever still clinging to his skin, but she… she glowed like the first sunlight after a long storm.

His smile deepened faintly when he caught the faint flush in her cheeks. Was she blushing?

“Oh… I’ve much improved in your care,” he murmured quietly.

But then her tone changed, and the warmth in his eyes dimmed as she spoke of trials and brothers and mercy. His smile faltered. He swallowed hard, his chest tightening as her words pressed against the quiet guilt he’d tried to bury.

“Stasya…” His voice was soft and threaded with weariness and regret. “I’m not.. good. I may not be as cruel as them, but I’ve still done things that don’t deserve forgiveness.” His gaze drifted to where their hands were joined, her delicate fingers clutching his rougher, scarred ones, and he exhaled, a shaky sound that almost resembled a laugh. “I can’t lie to you. I can’t claim I’m worthy of leniency… or of your faith.”

He met her eyes again, hazel dull but earnest. “We live different lives, you and I. You’ve had warmth, love… a chance to build something. For people like me, survival isn’t as simple as choosing what’s right.”

He hesitated, thumb brushing over the back of her hand as though committing the feel of her skin to memory. “You’re an angel for even wanting to help. But you shouldn’t get involved,” he said quietly, a fragile smile tugging at his lips. “As much as I’d give anything to let you.”
 
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Her heart sunk.

Stasya wanted to be fierce like Nadya, to tell society to bugger off when it came to protecting those she loved. Almost all her life, Cullen had been in her life, and she watched her sister and he fall in love... the way friends did. It was not just that love, but the sheer fact those two were the best of friends.

Being around that, having that shape your life as Stasya grew older... she always remembered the advice Cullen gave her when she would ask him about why certain men acted in certain ways. He always made her believe sje was good, that she was lucky to have a sister like Nadya to punch someone if Stasya confided in hef sister what some Lord's heir said about Stasya.

For so long, she wanted a love that was not what everyone expected of her. Stasya adored the attention and importance of being the Caliar heir after Nadya did not want it... but Stasya had been young herself when she accepted.

She wished to be free, too.

It hurt how strongly she felt for this not good man.

Stasya could not help but stare at him in her sadness. Words tried to come out, but only hesitations were audibly heard.

"Oh..." now she tore her gaze away. "I merely wanted... to help..."

But she got up too quickly. Her quill fell from her fingers and she knocked the table where his water and her inkpot rested. Stasya clutched to her notebook and turned away. Her eyes began to sting.

This was no... true rejection. Yes, she was upset, but not because of him. She was upset with everyone else too, that treated her as if she were too good and should not look away from such a point of view.

"I should... finish my shift with some rounds." Stasya needed a quiet, private place to process her feelings.
 
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Oh gods, no. The look on her face. The way the brightness in her eyes dimmed with sadness.. it gutted him. He had done that, all by denying her the simple wish to help.

That she’d wanted to help him at all meant more than he could ever say, more than anyone had made him feel in a very long time. But seeing that hurt in her eyes made him want to take it all back.

Still, maybe it was for the best. He’d long accepted what his fate would be. He’d stolen from the crown, stolen a dragon’s egg, and there was only ever one punishment for that. He was not naïve enough to think this would end well. And Stasya… she was everything he wasn’t.

Poised, kind, noble in every sense of the word. She didn’t belong in the shadows he lived in. If she stayed near him, it would ruin her. The whispers would start, the sneers, the judgment. Just as they had for him.

When she let go of his hand and turned away, Mylo’s heart splintered.

“Wait—Stasya—” he rasped, lurching upright against his better judgment. The motion tore at his side, and he bit back a cry of pain. The manacles clinked sharply, chains pulled taut as he reached for her, helplessly.

“I— I didn’t mean to offend you…” His breath hitched, the words tumbling out rough and uneven. “I just...”

He stared down at his hands, shaking his head. “You should go… but I don’t want you to. I’m more afraid of hurting you than I am of dying, and I barely even know you.” His voice cracked. “You’ve cared for me more in a few hours than anyone has in years.”

He exhaled shakily, shoulders sagging. “I’m sorry, Stasya. I have a knack for ruining things..”

His gaze lifted to her back, quiet, pained. “I just didn’t want you dragged down with me… to have your name dirtied for the sake of someone like me.. You are good and kind and, well, you seem like the sort of person who would feel pretty guilty if she tried to help and it didn’t work out…”
 
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She had Nadya as a role model her entire life, and watched her sister bend wills and scorched the earth she walked upon, all to make everyone not cross her. Stasya grew up watching someone be relentless, unapologetic, and earned the respect she asked for.

Stasya was softer than Nadya. She found ways to be braver, to do so comfortably in her own way... and yet still no one believed her to be capable of being more than this good person.

Her head turned before her eyes moved to meet his gaze. Lips parted as she exhaled a breath.

"What use am I to have my privilege and not use it to help those that need protection? Should I be this perfect lady, never stray from the path made for the likes of me?" Quiet, and yet her voice held strong even when it wavered due to sobs that wished to force through. "I only ask you to allow me to try. To let me use my connections to do something, and if I cannot do more on your behalf... then at least I tried to do something."

She wanted to be like Nadya. She was an heiress, not quite a Wing Leader, but Stasya held the rare opportunity of having many friends and acquaintances.

"Even if... you do not want... to drag me down..." she began, brows furrowing, "I only wish to be helpful... and then you will not need to hear from me again."

It was hard to keep his gaze. Guilt gnawed at her, made her avert her stare. Hard not to feel as if she were unwanted, but even if he did want her to stay... she felt as if she might crack with pressure.
 
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'You will not need to hear from me again..'

“Well… that is a heartbreaking thought,” Mylo said softly. His throat ached as the words left him, and he couldn’t quite meet her eyes. The idea of her walking away, of never hearing her voice again, it twisted something deep inside him that he didn’t quite know how to name.

He wasn’t used to anyone trying to protect him. No one ever had. But Stasya seemed to see something worth saving, and gods help him, that scared him more than the chains around his wrists.

He studied her trembling shoulders, the flicker of fire in her voice even as it wavered, and he sighed. “If you want to try,” he murmured, “then who am I to stop you?” His lips quirked faintly, but there was no humour in it, only a tired sort of wonder. “Just… promise me it won’t come at a cost to you. I'm not worth that..”

He tried to sit up a little more, wincing at the pain that flared through his side, but he needed her to hear him clearly. “Stasya…” he said, her a gentle plea on his tongue. “Please don’t leave.”

His gaze met hers then, desperate. “Not yet.”
 
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