Robert Crane - Crusader

She nodded sharply, almost in denial. “And … do you believe … you could ever feel that way about me … again?”

He breathed out, slowly, felt the emptiness and the fatigue deep inside. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything right now, really … except my duty. Except the promises I made.” He blinked, as though he were coming out of a trance. “I haven’t slept in days, or eaten. I’m so tired … I just don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Yes, well,” she started to withdraw from him, from his arms. Her hand remained rested on his breastplate, just above his heart, as though she could somehow touch it through the layers of armor and clothing. “I understand,” she said, her face firming up, settling into a mask of sorts into straight lines, the emotion sapping out of it, replaced with the face of the Vara he had come to know- back when I knew her. I haven’t seen her in over a year. “I understand completely. It has been … some time, after all. And there have been … others … in the interim.” She said “others” with a pang of regret so loud to his ears that it cried out to him.

“Yes,” he admitted. “But I don’t know where I stand with them, either.” He placed his fingers over his face, massaging his temples. “I’m sorry I have no answer for you.”

“It’s quite all right,” she said, and the regret now belonged to him as she slipped back to her old self. “I shouldn’t have expected any less from our conquering General, weary from the battles he’s fought to preserve us all from harm.” She gave him a quick nod. “Perhaps we’ll speak again later-once you’re … recovered.” She snapped to a more precise stance and walked toward the door, her back ramrod straight.

As he watched her go, it was her walk that gave her away. She had always been precise in her stride, evenly measured, crisp, almost marching. As she made her way to the door she kept the same stride but he could see the struggle in each step, as though she were having to drag her feet along away from him. It was a difference measured in time that would have been unnoticeable by most … and meant more to him than anything else she had said.

The knock at the door had stirred him out of sleep, a long, wearying sleep filled with old dreams, red eyes, and worse. The smell of his room was there when he snapped out of the deep weariness, opening his eyes and finding the stone ceilings above him, surrounding him. It took a moment to reacclimate, to adjust to his surroundings, to the fire in the hearth in front of him, filling the room with its smoky smell of home, to lick his lips and realize that the taste of the meat pie Larana had brought up to him was still on them, still hearty and good, better than anything he’d had while he had been away. The sheets were cool against his bare, clean skin, the shower in his own bathroom having done its job, the running water a beautiful luxury after his time away.

The knock jarred him again, reminded him why he’d awakened, and he forced his legs out from beneath the sheets. He wore fresh underclothes, for the first time in- too long. He blinked the sleep away, then rubbed his eyes, and wondered who might be at the door. Longwell or Odellan with a report on the pursuit. He took a sharp intake of breath. Or someone else-perhaps with news of Alaric. His feet carried him to the door, bare feet padding across the cool stone, his step a little quicker with anticipation, and he threw open the door-

“You,” he said dully, the fatigue biting back down on him, hard.

“You sound disappointed,” she said haltingly, staring at him over the threshold.

“No,” he said. “Just surprised.”

She stared at him coolly, hesitant. “May I come in?”

There was only a moment’s thought on his part. “Yes.” He stepped aside to let her in, but as she passed, something clicked in him and he leaned forward, his hand landing on her cheek and pulling her face to his. He kissed her, long, passionately, and she returned the kiss with all enthusiasm, one hand on his chest and the other tugging at his shirt, lifting it up as she broke from him for a moment. He lifted hers as well, kicking the door shut with his foot while he undressed her, leading her to the bed as he felt her slip his cloth pants off. His naked back hit the bed when she pushed him. The last of her clothing came off a moment later and she was upon him, kissing him deeply, the flavor of her in his mouth, then he pushed his lips against her neck. She rolled over and he was leaning atop her now. Their passions took over, and it was as though everything he had ever wanted were here, in this room, in this moment.

She kissed him, brought him close, and they made love, loudly and long into the night. When they were done, he fell asleep contented, his rest now dreamless and all his worries relieved, her head lying on his shoulder.

The noise was subtle but there. Cyrus heard it, out of the archives, on the staircase, the scrape of a shoe against stone. He put the journals aside and pulled a blade. Letting it point in front of him, he felt the strength surge through him from it. There was an odor blowing through now from the darkened plains outside. It smelled of decay, of rot- out of the east, no doubt.

He took a step forward, letting his armored boot land on the floor as quietly as he could make it. There was no fear in him, now, only caution. He could feel the weight of the sword in his grasp, the strength it gave him-and the slightest twinge of hunger from his stomach, protesting loudly at having not eaten for hours. It sent a swell of dryness to his mouth, and reminded him to take a drink of water at his next convenience- a strange thought for a man who has just heard an intruder in a dead place. He stepped out of the archive into the Council Chambers, letting his eyes ease around the room. The fire was going in the hearth, the torches were all lit, and he waited, trying not to even breathe, listening for the sound outside the half-opened door, which was hanging partially off its hinges. He was at an angle where it was not possible to see the stairs, though he knew that whoever was climbing them-or had already done so-would have to enter his field of vision in moments.

Cyrus tensed, bringing his sword back for a swing. The weight of it was solid in his hand, and he held it straight back, ready. He let his breath out slowly then took another as quietly as he could.

“You know,” came the voice through the open door, “if you’re going to invite someone to a place, it’s not really very sporting to sit just inside the door, waiting to ambush them.”

Cyrus felt his breath all come out in a rush. “You.”

“Me,” the voice came again from the room outside. “Would you mind lowering your sword so I can come in without fear of being filleted?”

Cyrus chuckled darkly and lowered the blade, putting it back into the scabbard that waited for it on the right side of his belt. “Come in.”

“About time,” came the voice again, and the man who said it was only a moment behind it, stepping in past the broken doors, avoiding hitting his head on the low-hanging arch of the trim. “Place looks like hell,” the man said- though I wouldn’t always have called him a man, Cyrus thought. Troll, in fact, would have been the preferred insult for quite some time.

“Vaste,” Cyrus said with a nod. “It’s good to see you.”

“Thanks,” Vaste replied. “I get the feeling you don’t say that much anymore.”

Cyrus shrugged, turning his back to the troll and walking toward the window. “Perhaps I might out of politeness. But meaning it? No. Not since …” he cast a hesitant, regretful look back. “Well. You know.”