Private Tales The Storm

A private roleplay only for those invited by the first writer
Arctus Valerian

Arctus Valerian

The Unbound Knight
Thunder of Thanasis
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Seriously Likeable I
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Character Biography
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Hooves thundered across the fertile wilds of Thanasis beneath the guiding wings of dragons. Roars, cries of draconic dominance scattered wildlife wherever they flew and did wonders to make the search for one Vivien Damaris since her kidnapping. An act that had sent the nobility of Thanasis into an indignant uproar. Most of all one Carsan Sahar who, with all the composure of a man possessed, had marshalled all his political weight to the retrieval of his "prize". Arctus had agreed to join the hunt, earning begrudging respect from the indignant Sahar, for though Carsan disliked the man the loss of his prize in Vivien was too great a risk to deny even he.

So it was that countless men, noble, common and all in between, swept the countryside over the ensuing days. Arctus among them. Whether by dragon wing or horseback all were dedicated to the task.

Meanwhile.....

In an isolated tower chosen for it's hidden, isolated clime a small group of brigands took to resting with their prize. They had been paid anonymously by some benefactor unknown to see the Damaris woman brought across the sea to lands distant from Thanasis. Into whatever future might await her there. A future, as it were, that would never come to pass. From her isolated, moderately furnished lodgings Vivien would hear the shouts of her hired mercenaries. Voices raised in alarm at some approaching party. Only for a man to scream, and die, cut down with ruthless efficiency. Then the harsh TWANG of a crossbow bolt being loosed. A loud, sickeningly wet death gurgle. Closer now to her high perch. The clang of metal, the impact of metal upon flesh, another life snuffed out without remorse.

Vivien would then find the room she dwelt within kicked open with great force.

But it was no knight or champion of Thanasis that stood there, in the doorway, but instead a towering Jarlax. This one with deep olive skin, blood fresh and hot running down it's chin to drip obscenely upon it's chest, a tattered piece of bleeding flesh caught in it's maw. The two blades of bone it held in two hands slick with viscera and gore. While this towering, mutated Jarlax sported yet a third arm. One that gripped a metal mace not of Jarlax make. Clad in naught but a loincloth and tribal fetishes the only other distinguishing feature of the muscular creature was a band about it's waist, replete with the skulls of women, and the Jarlax would hiss an unknowable sound at Vivien before beginning to stalk toward her with slow, hungry steps. It's blood-slick tongue lashing it's fangs in anticipation for the taste of her flesh.​
 
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The days following that rain-soaked night had been… strange. Unsettled. Vivien found it impossible to stop thinking of it. Of him.

Arctus haunted her waking thoughts and her dreams alike; those molten gold eyes burned into her memory, there whenever she closed her own. She had spent three days confined to her bed after that night, the cold having settled deep into her bones. Fever took her, fierce and unrelenting, leaving her drifting in and out of sleep, her dreams vivid and disquieting; warm hands, a low, rumbling voice, the echo of a smile she could not quite forget.

They had been furious, of course. Her parents. Carsan. The household rang with indignation of her actions. Yet none of it had been concern for her, not truly. She had expected as much, had expected to be left to the care of servants while the true outrage centred on appearances, on reputation bruised rather than flesh. And so she lay there, burning and shivering in equal measure, with far too much time to think.

In less than a fortnight she would be a wife. Lady Sahar.

The thought stole the breath from her lungs every time it surfaced, panic crashing over her like a rising tide, drowning her until she could scarcely breathe. Whatever little freedom she still possessed would be stripped from her entirely, her life sealed and settled into something cold and airless. The walls felt closer with every passing hour.

The moment she was strong enough to walk unaided, Vivien slipped away.

She wandered streets she had no business being in, veiled and quiet, heart hammering as she followed instinct rather than sense. It was there, in a market tucked far from noble eyes, that she found 'traders'. Their wares told their own story: spices not native to Thanasis, metals she had never seen worked by local smiths, accents muddled by distant lands. When she named her price, when she offered coin worth double their entire stock - half now, half once she was safely across the wastes and the sea - they had scarcely bothered to hide their eagerness.

She made sure to make her room look like there had been some sort of struggle.. As though she had not gone willingly to meet those men in the night. She packed lightly. Clothes she had purchased from the market, to help her blend in, and enough currency and jewellery to begin again somewhere far away, somewhere her name meant nothing. She would find a way to send for her sister in due time, otherwise, she would not mourn this life, this place or these people…Though she did regret that the night in the rain had been cut short. That single night of warmth and comfort became something precious, something to hold onto whenever she felt her panic and anxiety rise.

The journey across Malakath had been brutal. What began as fourteen men dwindled to eight, claimed by poisonous flora, venomous creatures, wildling traps, and predators that struck beneath cover of darkness. The heat in the day was merciless, pressing down on them until breath itself felt like work.

And still, none of it was worse than the future she had fled.

The abandoned tower where they now took shelter stood only hours from the coast. One more day, and she would be off the continent entirely. They had come so impossibly far...

She had been asleep when the screaming began. Vivien woke with terror clenching her heart, the sound of raised voices tearing her from uneasy rest. She rushed first to the window, peering out into chaos, then to the door, dragging a chair across the stone floor and wedging it beneath the handle with shaking hands.

It made no difference. The door exploded inward with unnatural force, the chair splintering to kindling.

She had seen Jarlax from afar before, during their assault on Thanasis, but up close was a different horror entirely. A towering, eyeless thing, its face a gaping maw of jagged teeth, blood slick across its claws and dripping from its tongue. It did not need eyes. It could smell her fear, hear the frantic thunder of her heart in her chest.

She snatched up a fire poker, her hands trembling as she slashed it clumsily through the air.
“Get back!” she cried, her voice shaking as the creature advanced, forcing her step by step into the corner of the room.

This was it. This was how she died.

Wasteful, she imagined them thinking - her parents, Carsan - disappointment etched across their faces. Gold eyes flashed through her mind, fierce and blazing, and her own burned with sudden tears.

The Jarlax was too close now. Any closer and she wouldn’t be able to strike at all. So she chose to act.
With a furious, desperate cry, Vivien lunged forward, driving the poker toward the creature’s chest, refusing, in this final moment, to go quietly.
 
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The Jarlax was, at least, malicious enough to be amused by Vivien Damaris 's attempts to ward it away. The sinuous, serpentine tongue flicking and lazily lashing the air at the utter non-threat she posed. As she clumsily swung the fire poker at it the confident creature would drop it's weapons, baring it's claws, flexing the gore slick appendages as it prepared to revel in tearing Vivien apart with it's bare hands.

It was surprised, just a bit, as Vivien suddenly cried out and lunged forward. It's mutated third arm would grip the shaft of the poker just as it met it's skin, the Jarlax's bone-masked face staring defiantly into Vivien's eyes, her own features vaguely reflected in a warped, twisted way in the polished, bloody sheen of the bone mask. Only for the Jarlax to use it's two free arms to grip her by the throat. The cloying, awful scent of blood and viscera staining her neck, flooding her senses, before the mutant Jarlax tore the poker from her hands and threw it aside.

The two powerful, muscular arms of the creature would lift Vivien from the ground by her throat, choking her, strangling her, claws just barely shy of piercing into her throat while that third arm delivered a hellishly brutal punch to her stomach. The creature had no mercy save for it's twisted, sadistic desire to kill her slowly. Nothing near a blessing, but instead a curse. Only when Vivien's pulse began to pound in her ears, when her eyes began to swim, did a new sensation reach her.

Hoofbeats. Fast, purposeful, and the sudden cry of a Jarlax from down below outside the tower. The creature currently strangling Vivien would pause, hiss, gnash it's fangs, before throwing her without care into the bed. Not onto it, but spine-first into the wooden frame as it turned, crouched low, and as another Jarlax cried it's last it picked up it's weapons and began to stalk forward toward the very door it had just kicked in.​
 
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Vivien’s eyes blew wide as the Jarlax caught the poker before it could do any real damage.

For a heartbeat she was frozen.. Shaking, trembling, the world narrowed to the warped reflection of her own terror in the blood-slick sheen of its bone mask. 'Silly girl'...

She managed only half a scream before clawed hands closed around her throat and squeezed.

Air vanished. Her hands flew up on instinct, fingers clutching at its wrists, nails scraping uselessly against hide made for war and slaughter. She tried, but it was like clawing at stone. No breath would come. No sound would leave her. Only silent, frantic gasps tore at her chest as her body begged for breath.

She kicked at it wildly, her bare feet striking muscle and bone in desperation, but the Jarlax barely seemed to notice. Then pain exploded through her as a brutal fist drove into her stomach, bruising on impact and stealing what little strength she had left. She could not cry out. Could not inhale. Could not exhale. She dangled there, suspended by her throat, utterly helpless, the awful certainty settling in that this was it, that this monster would take its time, and she would die here, nameless and forgotten.

Tears spilled from her eyes, and the edges of the world darkened, tunnelled inward. Her ears rang with the pounding of her pulse, loud and frantic at first, then sluggish… slower… slipping. Her legs stopped kicking. Her grip slackened. Arms fell uselessly to her sides as strength bled out of her far too fast.

This is how I die.

Then, she was thrown.

The relief her body felt as her lungs dragged in a greedy gulp of air was seriously short lived. She slammed spine-first into the wooden bedframe with a sickening crack of splintering wood. Pain screamed up her back, blinding. Her head struck hard, light detonating behind her eyes, before she slid, boneless, to the floor.

She lay there, crumpled and unmoving.

Breath came only in shallow, broken drags, each one a struggle. Her body was a map of pain; throat burning, stomach aching, spine aflame, but she could not muster the strength to move, to crawl, to do anything at all. Barely conscious. Barely alive..
 
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The floor Vivien Damaris lay upon all but shook with the sound of thunder as heavy steps tore through the lower levels of the tower. The very thunder of Thanasis itself contained in the stomp of armored feet, the whip-crack of it's lightning in the sharp sound of a blade cutting flesh. In the gurgled cry of another Jarlax ripped from the world. The three-armed Jarlax would, hissing uncertainly but thinking it had the time to prepare, skulk over closer to Vivien and drop it's dagger only to take up the fire poker she had barely stabbed it with. The bone of it's mask clacking maliciously as it drove the poker into the smoldering fireplace, letting ash and ember collect on the end of the poker.

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Just as the Jarlax turned, if Vivien were capable of raising her head to look, in the doorway stood a knight straight from a fairy tale. Armor a resplendent white and gold, the ornament of a Thanasian dragon upon the helm. Stylized spine frills decorated the back and scale-like pauldrons shielded the arms. The only thing sullying the knight's otherwise resplendent appearance was the dirt and Jarlax blood that haphazardly splattered their armor. The greatsword in their hand all but a fountain of the ichor that drained into the floorboards.

Hefting the greatsword, readying it without a word, the knight would charge forward just as the three-armed Jarlax fell into a crouch. Seeking to plunge it's remaining two blades up under the knight's upraised arms. The knight would halt their charge, pulling their leverage onto their back leg, coming up short of the Jarlax's twin lunges only to bring the greatsword down toward it's bone plate.

The Jarlax would throw the fire poker up to somewhat block the devastating strike, flinging ash and soot into the knight's helm which caused him to grunt and stagger back, the blow losing a lot of it's momentum even as the fire poker snapped in half at the blow. Leaving the hot, sharp upper half to clatter to the ground beside the Jarlax's dagger on the floor beside Vivien.

As the knight staggered back from the dirty trick the Jarlax would fling the poker's handle aside and leap bodily at the disoriented human, tackling him into the wall and a fierce stab through the visor would be barely dodged. The knight bringing up one hand from their greatsword to grab the Jarlax's wrist that had just tried to stab him, hugging it to his neck and trapping the Jarlax's arm while his other hand brought the hilt of the greatsword up into a sickening blow into the Jarlax's chin. Snapping it's head back and likely breaking it's jaw.

Though their tight confines now made the greatsword a very limited weapon and the Jarlax would use the hilt of it's own bone sword to began bludgeoning at the knight's helm again and again and again before the knight brought the greatsword blade up and simply held it in the way of that swinging arm, causing the Jarlax to cut itself for a moment before it began to jockey for positioning with the knight. The knight trying to push the Jarlax away to make room to use his blade while the Jarlax dropped the blade at the knight's neck in order to try and rip his helm off with it's fingers and press itself in closer to keep itself too close for him to use his blade.​
 
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Vivien was fighting desperately to stay conscious.

Her vision swam, heavy lids fluttering as darkness kept reaching for her, trying its best to drag her under. Her head throbbed where it had struck the frame, and she could feel blood trickle from a wound. Every breath rasped through a throat that felt crushed. She could not swallow. Could not cry out. Each inhale was a shallow, burning theft of air.

She heard everything. The thunder of armoured steps. The clash of steel. The wet, gurgling sounds of death.

Terror wrapped tight around her chest. Whatever was happening, it was only a delay, she thought dimly. Only the world stretching out the moment before the end. When the Jarlax came for her again, she would not survive it a second time.

The creature loomed closer. Vivien flinched weakly as it dropped one weapon and took up the poker, the scrape of metal and ash sounding impossibly loud. Her body tensed in anticipation, every nerve screaming, bracing for pain,
for death.

Then, another figure entered the room. She tried to focus, eyes struggling to make sense of what they saw. Only the gleam of metal registered. White and gold catching firelight. The heavy clank of armour. A sword.

A knight?..

Surely a hallucination. A fevered dream born of blood loss and terror.

The fight erupted in earnest, violence crashing around her, but Vivien forced herself to move. Her spine screamed in protest as she rolled onto her side, a broken gasp tearing from her ruined throat. Pain nearly stole what little consciousness she had left, but she clung to it, nails digging into the floorboards as she dragged herself forward.

Her hand shook violently as it reached out, clutching for the bone dagger. Trembling fingers closed around the hilt, slick with blood, and she hauled herself along the floor inch by agonsing inch. Splinters bit into her palms. Her vision blurred. The world narrowed to one singular goal.

Closer....

The Jarlax shifted, too focused on the knight, too intent on tearing him apart.
Too distracted to notice Vivien, striking like a viper in the grass, driving the dagger forward with everything she had left, plunging the blade into the creature’s heel.
 
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Neither combatant, in truth, had noticed Vivien Damaris begin to claw and scrape her away across the floor. The world's most vengeful caterpillar on her path of vengeance. Until the very moment she struck and the Jarlax let out a cry of surprise, pain, and turned it's bone masked face to look down at her. Raising it's stabbed foot to stomp on her. But this was all the time her knightly savior needed to push forward, slamming the crossguard of their greatsword into the creature's neck and tearing flesh, making it bleed and sending the Jarlax tumbling as the knight huffed ragged, deep breathes. Glancing down at Vivien before grunting.

"Well done My Lady."

That voice, surely a hallucination, because she KNEW that voice. That same voice that had comforted her in the rain, brought her out of the cold, those same arms that had held her lashed out with a greatsword as the Jarlax turned to flee. Limping as it was it could escape the blow entirely and earned a fierce flash across the back before it leapt from the window and Arctus would curse under his breathe, briefly considering pursuing the creature.... but instead he would let his blade fall, rush to Vivien, and remove his helm to let his ashen hair fall free. Clumped, matted with sweat he would gently cradle her up, back into his arms, safe, secure, saved even as a gauntlet-clad hand tenderly brushed the hair from her face.

"Lady Damaris?"

His voice gently reached to her through that watery darkness, like a hand plunged into frigid depths to haul her into the light, the warmth, as he brushed a thumb under one of her beautiful blue eyes.

"Lady Damaris, I am here. You are safe."​
 
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Her eyes squeezed shut as the creature’s foot lifted, her body bracing for the final, crushing pain, but it never came. Her heart battered wildly against her ribs, uneven, frantic, as the darkness surged again and dragged her under. She was slipping, drifting off when she heard that voice..

It reached her through the haze, and for a fleeting moment she stirred, half aware, certain now that she was hallucinating. Of course she was. She had thought of that voice far too often since the night in the rain, heard it in fever dreams, felt it echo in the hollow spaces of her chest. Now it had come to comfort her at the end.

How kind of the mind, she thought dimly. To give me that.

She slipped away again. Then hands were on her, real hands, lifting her, shifting aching body. Pain lanced through her spine and she grimaced, a weak sound tearing from her throat as she startled back into consciousness.

And there he was. Arctus. A knight in white and gold, touching her face so gently, telling her she was safe.

Absurd.. Ridiculous.. Her mother’s voice rose sharply in her mind, cold and reprimanding. It’s all in your head, silly girl. Foolish nonsense.

Her eyes were glassy as she blinked slowly up at him, unfocused. She lifted a trembling hand, unsure why she bothered, reaching as if to prove herself wrong.. Her fingers brushed his jaw. Rough stubble scraped gently against her skin.

She froze, and shock flickered weakly across her face as her touch lingered, testing.. He was solid. Warm. Breathing. Real.

A faint, broken sound escaped her, something between a breath and a sob. Bruises were already darkening her throat, blooming ugly and livid beneath his gaze. She tried to swallow and failed, her face twisting as she forced herself to try to speak. Her lips parted.

Nothing but air came out.

Her brows knit together in confusion and panic and something dangerously close to relief tangling in her chest. She stared up at him, searching his face as though it might dissolve if she looked too closely.

How was he here? Had he tracked her all the way here? How? Her lips shaped the word uselessly. No sound followed.
 
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He would allow himself a small smile, comforting her, tending to her. Shifting her ever so softly until she seemed to be in the least pain he could cause while tending to her. When he saw her try in vain to question 'how' he would shush her gently, his leather-clad thumb pressing gently to her lips, before he would stand with her in his arms as if she weighed nothing at all. Her spine and head fully supported, nestled close to a breastplate spattered with blood.

He would then trudge through the tower slowly, searching room by room, until he found a bathing room. Complete with a hearth and sizable tub he would gingerly carry Vivien to it, lay her inside, and study her for a long moment.

"I will be right back, My Lady."

Was all he said before he set a pot in the hearth to boil some water with a flame lit by hand, went to retrieve his sword, and use the various bits of metal and wood around the tower to board up the entrance and windows. In case the Jarlax came back with more of it's kind. But with that done he would return to Vivien, kneel beside the tub, and meet her eyes pointedly as he brought the pot of water to floor to let it cool.

"I am going to ask you to trust me My Lady."

He said before gently reaching out, gripping her ragged dress along the collar at her chest.... and simply tore it open with raw, primal strength to bare her torso to him. Shredding the fabric with ease before he pulled the ruined remains off of her and kept his gaze respectfully on her own eyes, his eyes flittering down to her bare chest only briefly, before his hands roamed torturously slowly down her arms and sides to her hips and... he did the same. Tearing away the finery that would cause her too much pain to take off normally. Leaving her as bare as newborn in the tub before he picked up the pot of warm water, now well shy of boiling and enough to feel pleasant, and gently let it pour down onto her chest and over her shoulders.

Though he was composed the sight of such a beautiful woman like..... THIS was appreciated even by him, quite a lot, so to give himself some distance he nodded respectfully, took the pot, and left the room to go fill it with water. After all, one pot had not nearly filled the tub entire so he would have to do this quite a few times to get the Lady Damaris comfortable. Woe to him who had to pour steaming water over the glistening body of a beautiful Thanasian noblewoman.

A fate worse than death, truly, for any pretense of being a completely noble and virtuous knight.

Vivien Damaris​
 
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Vivien’s breath hitched when his thumb brushed her lips, not in protest, but in startled surrender. Her lashes fluttered, heavy, eyes unfocused, as he lifted her again. The world tilted and swam, pain blooming sharply along her spine as she was carried, but she did not fight him. She could not.

When he lowered her into the tub, her breath left her in a thin, pained sound and her head lolled back against the rim, eyes half-lidded. Every inch of her hurt. Her throat burned with each shallow pull of air.

When he said he would be right back, her gaze followed him with quiet urgency, not yet ready to be left alone. When he returned and knelt before her, those gold eyes locking with hers, she forced herself to focus, to be present.

Trust.

The word echoed through her as his hands caught her torn, rain-ruined dress. The sound of fabric ripping was loud in the small space.

Vivien stiffened instinctively, a sharp breath dragging through her bruised throat. Her hands twitched toward her chest, fingers curling weakly as if to cover herself, but the movement pulled at her ribs, sent pain lancing through her spine, and she faltered. Her arms fell back to her sides, useless.

Her face flushed, heat blooming across pale skin, though her chin lifted just enough in effort to salvage what pride she could from the wreckage of the moment. She did not protest or plead. She endured, pulse racing, eyes locked on his face as his hands began to move down her arms..

Vivien’s breath stuttered. Not from fear, but from the strange awareness of being felt so carefully. Still, her body reacted before her pride could marshal itself. As his palms slid over her sides, thumbs brushing the curve of her waist, a faint shiver ran through her. Her fingers twitched uselessly against the the tub as instinct urged her to stop him, to cover herself and reclaim some fragment of modesty, but her strength failed her. The effort sent a sharp reminder through her ribs and spine, stealing what little breath she had managed to gather.

When his grip closed at her hips and he tore the skirts away, the sound of ripping fabric filled the room once again. The flush in her skin felt almost mortifying in its intensity, aware off how close he was. Of how utterly exposed she was beneath his hands. Of how carefully - respectfully - he did not linger where he could have.

Her breath quickened when the warm water poured over her skin, she shuddered from the sudden contrast, from the way sensation rushed back. A faint, involuntary sound slipped from her lips, half breath, half pain, and her lashes fluttered closed as her body sagged deeper into the tub.

When he stepped away, giving her that distance, she opened her eyes again, watching him go with a strange ache in her chest. One hand finally lifted resting over her heart as if to steady it.

When he left, the room seemed to exhale. The weight of his presence faded with his retreating footsteps, leaving only the soft crackle of the hearth. Vivien lay very still in the tub, steam curling lazily around her, her skin prickling where the warmth met bruises that were only just beginning to announce themselves.

Her thoughts came rushing in to fill the space he had left behind, disordered and breathless. Where were the men who had brought her here? Had they fled? Been slaughtered? The sounds she had heard before Arctus arrived had not been the sounds of men running.

Her stomach twisted.

Had he come alone? She had travelled such a long way.. Her brow furrowed faintly as she stared at the stone ceiling through half-lowered lashes.

How had he found her?

The distance alone should have made it impossible. The wastes of Malakath were merciless, the coastline vast. She had left no word. No trail she had known of. And yet here he was, not too late, not searching, but arriving at the precise moment her strength had failed.

And then the question she did not want to ask herself, but could not keep at bay.

Why?

Why chase a woman all this way? Why risk himself for her? Perhaps there had been payment or reward involved.. She pressed her lips together, throat tightening as her mind returned to the night in the rain, to gold eyes in firelight, to warmth, to a promise spoken without flourish or demand.

I would never leave someone in need.
 
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As those thoughts finished replaying themselves in her mind Arctus would return bearing two pots of fresh water. One he sat over the hearth and the other on the floor. He would then kneel beside the tub, roll up Vivien's torn skirts, and then softly cradle the back of her head in a strong, supportive grip. His eyes meeting yours as he instructed.

"Tell me if this hurts more than it helps."

He would then gently bring her neck forward, her chin dipping down, before slowly tucking the rolled up skirts behind and beneath her head against the rim of the tub as a makeshift pillow. If Vivien indicated that it made her pain worse he would remove it, if it brought her any relief it would stay. He would then retrieve the pot on the hearth, replace it with the second pot, and give her a pointed look before beginning to slowly pour the warm water over her body.

Flowing, liquid heat would cascade down Vivien Damaris in rippling waves that teased her chest and swirled at her stomach. He did not focused the fall of the water anywhere inappropriate of course, but it was a slow, strangely intimate process as it set her skin glistening and highlighted just how bare and vulnerable she was. Completely exposed, helpless even, and yet he did nothing but care for her and respect her. His eyes never lingering, never gawking, despite the slowness in his motions that made the desire for them to do so painfully obvious.

The only thing greater than his desire for her was his control. A control he would keep as he retrieved the second pot and, using a ladle, would gently scoop the water onto her hair. Being careful to avoid letting it run down her face and over her eyes, darkening the fiery red hair to a color between deepest crimson and black before the water was now directed to her throat, warming and tingling down her exposed neck and over her front, her face spared, and the tub full enough that once she was made to glisten one more time he would set the pots aside and retrieve a rag from his belongings.

Usually used for cleaning blade oil it had not been used since being cleaned last. He even possessed a bar of dehydrated soap that he would dip into the water beside her gently, lather the rag, and stare into her eyes as he slowly scrubbed at her shoulder and neck. Whispering in a low, smoldering rumble.

"The Lady Damaris may wash herself, if she so wishes?"​
 
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Vivien’s thoughts had only just begun to settle when he returned, the soft scrape of metal drawing her gaze back to him through a haze that still had not fully lifted. She did not resist when he adjusted her position, though the movement of her neck sent a sharp protest through her spine and a faint, strained sound escaped her throat before she could stop it. Her fingers curled faintly against the edge of the tub, knuckles paling, but she gave no clearer indication than that.

The warmth, at first, was welcome. It spread slowly over bruised skin and aching muscle, easing the chill that had burrowed into her bones, and for a few fragile moments she allowed herself to drift in the simple relief of heat.

But as the water continued to pour, awareness began to sharpen behind her eyes. Her breathing remained shallow, careful. Her head still rang faintly where it had struck wood. When she shifted even slightly, her stomach churned with nausea, the room tilting slightly.

And yet he had not asked where she was hurt. He had not examined the swelling at her throat, nor the tenderness at the base of her skull. He had not pressed gently along her spine to test what damage had been done. Instead, he had undressed her completely and begun to wash her, when she was perfectly clean.

The realisation did not come as outrage. It came quietly.

Her lashes lifted fully now, blue eyes clearing as they fixed on his face while he worked. There was control in him, yes. Care. His gaze did not wander, did not linger where it should not. And that, perhaps, was what made the situation more complicated rather than less. There was no overt impropriety in his manner. Only intimacy.

Too much of it.

When the rag touched her shoulder and moved slowly along the curve of her neck, Vivien drew a careful breath through her bruised throat. It hurt. The sensation radiated downward, reminding her of how little strength she truly possessed in this moment. How little agency.

She lifted her hand slowly, her fingers finding his wrist and closing around it, not with force, but with quiet insistence. Her gaze held his. There was no anger in her expression. No panic. Only a steadying awareness returning to itself. The softness born of shock was fading, replaced by something more composed. More herself.

She swallowed carefully, wincing at the scrape of it, and when she spoke the sound was fragile.

“That is… enough.”

Her hand slipped from his wrist and lowered instead to rest lightly against her own collarbone, not scrambling to hide herself in embarrassment, but drawing a subtle boundary between them.

"You've... done more.. than enough." she rasped. There was gratitude there. Confusion, still. And beneath it a quiet need to re-establish balance between them before it tilted too far.

She would accept his protection. But she would not surrender herself entirely to it.
 
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