November Q&A — Part Two (Patreon)

• There will be advantages to corruption, that much is clear, but will the contrary be true too? Will we gain something by stalling the mark other than to curb the killing of 'innocents' (or not lose yourself in the process, perhaps, is the reward)?

I don't want to reveal much about the Corruption run at this point because it's finally starting in this Book — Book One was a build-up where things revealed themselves slowly — but now, I can get dirty.

I will say, however, that, in the very early days when I was writing Chapter Two of Book One, where you run into the farmers turned bandits, it used to be that if you killed every farmer in the battle, you wouldn't have a choice on whether to kill Garrett or not.

Romanus wouldn't have a choice. They would be made to kill the boy.

I decided to change it because it is still so early, and I think the players wouldn't really understand what happened or why. So, with this in mind, perhaps not losing yourselves in the process is a satisfying gain on its own...

• So far, there seems to be way more development if you're favorable to the old gods (Juturna even speaks to you). Will the same happen to those that want to follow the '~christian'  like path? Developments like Romanus hearing voices from 'God', boons, and so on.

This one is something that I am painfully aware of. There is an imbalance between a sinful Romanus and a pious one — if, as you said, you carry Juturna's boon, you can even hear the goddess's voice. Who knows what else can happen if you nurture that connection?

Good or bad.

With the Church's god, it's different. Because, at this point, you're comparing an ant to a mountain. Juturna, as she is, is almost nothing. No one knows her name, no one is left to worship her, no one even remembers her. What we found in that dark tomb is little more than an echo, a ghost of a memory, a slither of what once was that still clung desperately to the world of mortals.

So, when we find her, Juturna latches on. She does her best to sink her claws into you, in her weak, ghostly way. You are the first in a millennium to speak her name. The first to reach out to her in a version of a prayer.

The thing about Juturna is that she needs you. Desperately so.

The Church's God does not. If you worship Him, you are part of a large, extensive flock. He will not, for now, avert His gaze upon you —thousand more voices seek His attention. Some refer to Him as the deaf God, and isn't that what faith is? To believe without proof? To love without boon?

Is the promise of Heaven not enough for you? What have you done to gain a blessing? Follow the rules, keep your head down, and when your soul passes on, you'll gain eternal life.

But Hadrian swears he can feel Him. Hadrian is made stronger by his devotion to Him.

I don't think Romanus will ever hear Him speak— His voice alone would drive a mortal mad — but I have some things planned.

• What would each of the ROs have chosen if they were the ones who ended up confronting Joan (assuming all ROs were at the same romance stage)? And would their choice be different if it was their face she messed up vs the MCs?

If it was Hadrian's face disfigured by Joan, he would have let her go. The broken leg, the pitiful sobbing, and the sheer terror in her eyes would be enough for Hadrian to consider her sins forgiven. He would put his thumb in the middle of her forehead, close his eyes, and mutter a prayer.

After, Hadrian would carry her to the side of the road, near a house, so she could be found quickly, and leave with a lighter heart, free from the corruption of revenge.

If it was you... I think his sword hand would be shaking. He'd crouch before her, but her sobs and wails, the fear he could taste in the air, wouldn't do much to appease him. That would scare him. He would be terrified, in that crucial moment, of what he would like to do — do unto others as they've done to the one I love.

But Hadrian wouldn't. Not moved by pity or compassion but by righteousness. He would sway his hand because it was the right thing to do. Once again, his faith would help guide him.

Hadrian would just leave her there, a broken heap in the middle of the road. "Don't ever touch them again," he would say over his shoulder. "My mercy for you has run dry."

- - -

If Alessa was the one scarred, she would end Joan's life without a second of hesitation. She would walk towards the sobbing guardswoman, heart of stone and eyes like mirrors, crouch, and wordlessly sink a knife in her heart.

After, Alessa would simply get up, wiping the blood off the blade, mount Kroner, and go. Joan would be forgotten as soon as she got out of Alessa's sight.

If it was you, and Alessa saw how she hurt you, Joan would end the same way, but Alessa wouldn't be dispassionate about it. It would give her satisfaction to see the guard trying to crawl away. Alessa would slink up to her like a cat following prey, a cold, terrifying smile on her lips.

She'd grab Joan's hair and tug her harshly, exposing her neck. "I know what you have done," Alessa would say, barely registering the other woman's pleas. She would raise a knife to her throat and hold it there. "'Twas your last mistake, guardswoman."

The slice would be quick, however. Alessa's version of mercy.

- - -

It's very hard to imagine how Alain and Ysabella would react to someone violently assaulting them. Joan would have been a first, and I think these reactions would be born out of shock and not so much as how they normally react to things.

If Alain had a scar on his face, the nobleman would be seeking revenge. If he found Joan there, broken and helpless, he'd step on her hand until he heard the bones snapping. It would also be a first and he'd be shocked, later, at the jolt of exaltation that ran through him.

He knows, on principle, how to use a blade. He would try to use one now. "I know," he'd coo, hand cradling her face as pleas spilled from her lips. Alain's touch would be close to the caress of a lover, his thumb sweeping the blood on the arch of her cheeks.

Sweet and loving if it weren't for the glint of cruelty in his eyes, so similar to his uncle's. "I know, sweetheart. They tell me death is quick and painless." Alain would stab her, then, nowhere near a vital organ. "I hope that's a lie."

If it was you, Alain would be more level-headed. But this coldness would be used for a worse fate. He'd walk slowly towards Joan, smiling one of his handsome smiles, and avoiding with disgusted grimaces the puddles of blood near her. "You're Joan, the fierce guardsman, aren't you?" he asks, and only the trained eye would catch the way his eyes narrow at her relieved smile.

"My lord," Joan would whisper. She thinks she's safe. "I am, y— yes. Joan."

"Joan," Alain repeats. He doesn't touch her, only crouches near and stares at her. "I've heard of you, Joan."

"Please, call for help."

Alain's eyes hood. "Help is coming," he promises. Joan's mouth flies open when he grabs her chin with a bruising grip. "But it's not for you."

He'd carve her cheek, and when his personal guard arrived, he'd order them to carry her unconscious body to the Theer's dungeons. Whether she would live or die, depends on you.

“What do you want, sparrow?” Alain would ask, lips close to yours. “Whatever you want.”

- - -

Ysabella would be shaking. Her whole body would tremble as she stood before the woman who disfigured her. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she tried to hold in the sobs, but some would come out.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Joan's pleas would be like ice knives stabbing into her, but even so, Ysabella would force herself closer. She'd stand before Joan with hands tightened into fists and her bountiful curls soaked from the pouring rain.

And Ysabella would forgive. "You will leave Tarragona," she would say, the words sure despite the tears. "I will never see you again."

If it was you... Ysabella would weep too, but silently. Cold tears would pour down her cheeks as she regally approached Joan.

"My lady," Joan would call.

Ysabella would raise her chin high. "You've harmed someone I care about. You dared touch what is beyond your reach.”

Joan would be in too much pain to make the association. "What... please, my lady."

“You forget yourself!” she’d yell, shaking too but not from sorrow this time. Anger. Pure, brittle anger. “You disgraced yourself, the whole guard you represent. I should hang you! I should have you flayed! I should… I should mark you, as you have marked my darling’s face.”

Ysabella cannot stop crying. “How dare you.”

“N– no. Please, help me.”

But Ysabella would shake her head. "No one is helping you again, Joan of the city guard."

She stood there until her guard arrived, and Ysabella would order them to carry Joan to her family's cells. “But a word, sister,” Alain would tell her, his hand in hers. “A word from you and I’ll take care of it.” He would kiss her forehead. “You won’t have to see her.”

Ysabella would hug him but shake her head as she does. “When have you grown so cold, my sweet brother?” she wondered with sorrow. “I – I can’t do it. Alain, have her exiled. You were right. I will never see her again.”

Alain would do as she said, and Ysabella would go back to you. She would not ruin herself for Joan. The guardswoman has ruined enough.

- - -

The Pirate King, surprisingly, would leave her on the street. She wasn't the first to have maimed him, and she's not what he's seeking in Tarragona, so when he saw the threat neutralized, he would just turn and go. No parting words, no further insults. If anything, it amused him to think this little guard tried to stop him. He would want her alive to spread the word to the entire city's guard — maybe even the entire city.

Do not get in his way or a broken leg and a broken spirit is all you'll have left.

If it was you... The Pirate would still want her alive. But there are so many ways to be alive. "Tell me, city dog, how many fingers do you need?" he'd ask, sitting with his legs stretched out casually beside her as if he was eating a picnic with her.

But when Joan tries to crawl away, the Pirate clicks his tongue and pulls her back to her place. "None of that. Now, answer me, or I'll take them all."

He vaguely wishes he had his pipe with him.

The woman would cry, and he'd endure it, but he could feel his patience starting to run thin. "Answer me," he'd growl at last, the darkness in his voice finally getting through to her.

"Ten," Joan sobs in answer.

He chuckles. "Try again."

"N— nine."

"How about six?"

It would take a while, but in the end, she would be alive — a wrecked example of what happens if you dare touch his lover.

- - -

With Neia... depends. Neia would have killed Joan immediately after the other tore her cheek, and it's not about the scar itself — Neia couldn't care less. It was the pain and the thrill of battle that would make her seek blood, and Joan would succumb right then and there.

If, in this hypothetical, Joan escaped and Neia ran into her later, then I believe things would be different. Neia would approach Joan, her tall, imposing form drenched by the rain standing above the other in deep silence. I find it hard to describe Joan's fear, then.

She would be so afraid that even her pain would fade into the background. All she'd do is stare back, silent pleas on her lips, eyes begging mercy to someone who is known to have none.

Neia's fingers would itch for her sword. But, instead, Neia would turn and walk into the rain without another word.

Joan left staring dumbfounded at her back.

If it was you, Neia would just kill her. She wouldn't speak a word or make a sound. She would step up to Joan, raise her sword high, and cut through the other.

She's not God to judge Joan; she's just the one who arranged the meeting.

- - -

Lance would not kill or maim her. He would stop for only a moment, feeling the sting of his own wound on his face, then smile through the pain at Joan.

"We are fated to meet with violence, you and I," he'd say, and then, his voice would turn colder. "Perhaps, guard, it's best if we do not meet again. Who knows how that will go, and to be honest, I believe my compassion is dwindling."

Lance would wait for Joan to acknowledge him, then bow and take his leave.

If it was you, Lance would take a deep breath. He dislikes this. He dislikes hearing the woman's pain, and he dislikes seeing her lift her hand at him, begging for help. But, most of all, Lance dislikes the way you avoid his eyes now, hiding your bruised cheek from him.

He dislikes thinking how it must have pained you. He hates to see the black bruise on your skin, a skin worth writing songs about.

All because of her. "I don't like this," he'd admit to Joan as he came close. His eyes would be hooded, and his mouth a thin line. "I really don't."

"Please."

Lance would catch her hand in his. "But I was raised to turn the other cheek," he says, pulling her closer. Joan tries to take her hand away, but Lance digs his nails in, trapping her. "So, please, turn your cheek."

The dagger in his boot would do the job. Lance does not like to see her passed out on the street, her face a bloody mess, but life often forces you to do what you'd rather not.

This is only one more of those instances.

- - -

Rafael would curse her. "Look what ya did to me!" he'd say, forcing Joan to look at his wrecked face. He already had a tooth taken out from him, now this. He's even more ruined, uglier. He can't get Tarek, not yet, but he can get her.

Joan was right there, helpless and pathetic, and he could get his revenge. He's furious, he's seething, he's...

"Please, mercy."

How many times did he beg for mercy too?

He has a knife ready, and it would be easy. Cathartic. It would be so easy, but Rafael stares at her tears. "... fuck," he says, the words as broken as Joan.

He lowers his arm. He can't do it. "God damn it." He sneers at her. "Go. Crawl the hell away. I don't want to see ya again."

He'd turn away, cursing himself, and go.

If it was you, Rafael would not think of himself. He would be seeing your face, bruised and pained, and the look in your eyes when he had tried to kiss it. He would hear the hurt in your voice as you told him what had happened and the promise he had made not to let anyone harm you again.

Rafael would not be seeing Joan but your face. It wasn't her pleas that echoed in his ears, but yours. And, as Rafael mindlessly kills Joan, it wouldn't be in the way he normally kills but the way Alessa showed him how.

A quick swipe of the blade and a river of blood down Joan's neck.

- - -

Vallen kneels beside Joan. "What am I to do with you?" the Red Guard wonders, tilting her head to the side, exposing the angry scar marring her face. "Killing is bad, isn't it? I shouldn't kill."

Joan groans. "I didn't mean to."

"Ah, ah!" Vallen lifts a finger. "Lying is bad too. You really shouldn't lie, Joan. Not ever, but especially not now."

Vallen waits for the other to answer with raised brows and round eyes like a child waits for a cookie. "Well?”

"I... I'm sorry."

"Oh, that's good," Vallen says sweetly. And is with a sweet, innocent smile that she adds. "Too bad it isn't good enough."

The death is quick, the body abandoned where it is.

If it were you, Vallen would act the same way, but the death would not be quick. She would stab Joan in her gut and rise, watching the other slowly, agonizingly bleed to death.

• I think you’ve mentioned before that MC, Hadrian, and Alessa went on a mission together before the current one. Can we know more about that mission, or will it come up later in the story?

In the last Q&A, I said that Romanus, Hadrian, and Alessa went on a mission to León as soon as Romanus joined the Company. This was a very easy, low-stakes escort mission of a caravan filled with spices.

The merchant paid the company to make sure it all went smoothly. This job was way below Alessa’s and even Hadrian's status, but Tarek used it as a test to see how Romanus would fair — he wanted Alessa to watch you.

After that, you went on a couple more missions with Hadrian and other people and one more with Alessa, only the two of you. The second mission you were all grouped together was to this nameless tomb in the Kingdom of Aragón, not ten days from Tarragona.

• I also have my own question on an expansion on what the canon childhood of the different origin Romanus’ was like for them growing up. Picking the different options during that segment in Ch 1 did give insight and titbits, but with all you had to go over in a short span to inform the plot, I’m still curious since I enjoyed playing each background.

What kind of questions do you have? I purposely left a lot of things vague in the childhood section because I want room for you to imagine and shape your own Romanus. I gave you tools to carve who you like to play as.

Maybe you had a lot of other friends, or maybe not. Maybe you liked to take long walks and wonder about the world outside of your bubble, or maybe you were never interested in what's out there and focused on what's close.

Did you have a first kiss? When did you first kill someone? Did you feel alienated by your lack of family besides your mother?

That's all for you to decide, not me.

• Maybe something about how shady and reclusive Romanus looks like from the RO perspective? With the radio silence about their backstory and the eternal glove that never comes out, the ROs must have things going on in their minds about it...

Hadrian has noticed it, of course. It's hard not to. You shy away from any talk about the past, and whenever someone mentions your glove, Hadrian catches the slight flinch of your shoulders.

The questions came unbridled to his mind in the early days of knowing you. Why? Who? Where did you come from?

But, as soon as the questions came, so they were gone. So many of the Company's mercenaries would rather not talk about their past and Hadrian knew yours would be especially tragic. You know Latin, after all, and he's no fool — Hadrian is aware of what that means.

In the beginning, Hadrian was glad of your reluctance to speak. It meant that you didn't expect him to share either and honestly, Hadrian liked that arrangement. As time went on... Hadrian started to care for you. Either as a friend or someone who would plague his night with feverish dreams, the bottom line is that he wants to know.

It's not just a mere curiosity; it's a need.

By the Lord, he almost pries so many times. When you're eating together, alone, Hadrian opens his mouth, the question right there, but then you smile, at ease in his presence, and Hadrian finds he doesn't want to betray that trust. Or when you're walking, side by side, and you make an observation about the weather, Hadrian wants to ask about the weather of your home, but he glances at you and sees the contentment in your eyes as you soak in the gentle sunlight and...

He hasn't the heart to make you retreat into yourself. Not now. Not when you look so beautiful, with the sun as a halo on your skin.

If, in Chapter One, you choose to tell Hadrian about your home, he can barely restrain himself. He had to bite his cheek to keep from pressuring you, to keep from spilling the hundreds of questions he has for you. But Hadrian sees the circles in your eyes, and he's so worried then, about you. You say you didn't sleep well, and he can see that. There's an... edge about you since you've arrived at Tarragona, and the last thing the ex-Templar wants is to add to your burdens.

I think I haven't made it clear yet how worried Hadrian is about Romanus at the start of Book Two. Because you are cracking, and he's seeing it clearly.

So, he swallows the questions, but he's close now. He doesn't know how much longer he'll go without asking you for more information. He'll tell you about the Templars, he's decided. He'll tell you whatever you want, he just...

Hadrian wants you to trust him. At this point, it breaks his heart that you don't.

- - -

Alessa has had questions since before she met you. She wants to know your history from the moment Tarek announced you were to be a part of the Company and you have translated a poem in that dead language.

She wants to know in the way a strategist needs to know all the moving pieces before making a decision. She does not trust you — she does not trust any stranger, and even those she knows, she trusts but a handful – and Alessa trusts you less the more you refuse to answer her vaguely inquisitory queries.

It infuriates her that Tarek keeps the details from her. It's very rare that he ever does. Why would he do so with you, of all people? What have you promised him? What has he promised you?

The more you deflect, hide, and avoid, the more her suspicions grow. You are a liability. You are hunted, you will bring disaster to them all. You are...

You are her first friend in a long while. The first person who has made her heart quicken and put foolish thoughts in her head. You are not merely a piece of a puzzle she wants to see finished; you are you, and despite it all, Alessa has come to care for you.

She backs off. She sees, of course, your fingers digging into your glove. She notes your deflective jokes whenever someone asks about your last name or your family. "Why? Want to know if I'm claimed?" you'd ask the person right back, with a curling smirk. "Because I'm not. Feel free to shoot your shot."

Alessa ignores the sour taste of jealousy that she's become familiar with ever since she met you and focuses instead on how the conversation is instantly redirected. She'd find you masterful if she didn't find it as equally infuriating.

But she will not ask, and she will not pry. Alessa is fiercely loyal. It's one of her biggest flaws and her biggest virtue. If your past, if whatever is happening beneath your glove, does not matter to the business at hand, then she will not pry. If it doesn't put the Templar fool, herself, or you in danger, then Alessa will let it rest. If it does not weigh on the mission, Alessa will pretend she cares not.

She has secrets too. Secrets that... she finds herself more willing to share with each passing day you and she grow closer. But she will wait for you to come to her willingly. She owes you that much.

But Alessa wonders, of course. She wonders more than she'd ever admit. And she will be damned if that enigma, if that aura of secrecy does not make you even more alluring.

- - -

Alain does not know you. As the game is, he only knows two things: you're a mercenary, and you're easy on the eyes.

The first fact intrigues him, and the latter delights him.

Alain Theer has no idea the type of person he's tangling himself with, but he will soon enough, and the nobleman will wonder. I think that's what Alain will do the most when it comes to you: wonder.

He will wonder why you choose to bring a glove to the ball. He'll wonder, as he holds you in his arms, guiding you in your first-ever dance if the skin on that palm is as soft as the skin on the other. He will wonder why it's still on when he's shedding your clothes from your body and kissing the skin behind your ear.

And he'll delight in your shiver as his hand drifts down but then frown at the way you'll tense when he touches your glove, intending to slip it from you.

"No," you say, leaning away from him. You stare down, your eyes hidden by your hair, with your hand closed in a tight fist.

Alain blinks, trying to regain his bearings. So, no touching the glove. Alright, then. "Little sparrow, no need to show your talons," he says, seductive and enticing as he gently sweeps the hair away from your eyes. "Message received. Let's not spoil this, hm?"

You lean into his touch, and Alain kisses you, but even as he savors the taste, he puts the incident to the back of his mind. He'll wonder as he watches you sleep in the morning, so at ease. Who are you? Who did he tangle up with?

It's rare for him to care, honestly, but here he is, wanting to know more about you. Huh. What an odd change of pace.

- - -

Ysabella, like her brother, will notice the glove right away. But, unlike her brother, she had already noticed when she met you the first time. One hand was free, and the other was clad. She thought you were an archer, but then she saw you use your other hand as the dominant one, and Ysabella took note the little detail.

She notices many other details about you and has no qualms in asking about them. She asks you, and you deflect. She teases, jokingly, but even if you play along, Ysabella notes how you never give anything back.

It delights her for a while. It's all part of the game, the push and pull of seduction. And you are educating her. Ysabella lets herself fall for it, for just a little while, because your smile is handsome and your touch is light, and she wants you to herself for one night.

You are the mysterious mercenary, the dream of another life, and Ysabella indulges in it. But later, when circumstances change, and you're more than an escape, more tangible than a dream... the questions weigh on her like boulders. She finds herself hurt, but not for her.

For you.

You suffer, she can tell. You carry burdens too and she wishes, then, that you would allow her to ease some of that weight.

- - -

The Pirate King doesn't notice it for a while.

If you don't tell him your name at the docks, he thinks you smart and tells you so. If you do, he thinks you naive and also tells you so. Were he in your shoes, he would say nothing, and when you meet again, he doesn't expect you to share anything at all.

Why would you? He is what he is. He doesn't exactly ooze an aura of trust, nor would he want to. He likes people on edge when they're around him — it's funny but, most of all, it's useful. It keeps them in line.

Besides, he already knows what you are. A mercenary, a soul for hire. You answer to another and are bound to chains the way so many of the landwalkers are. There's nothing to uncover. No treasure to dig.

But... he'd be lying if you didn't intrigue him. You did at the harbor. The Pirate couldn't tell you why, only that he had the gut feeling that he'd be dealing with you again — and his gut is rarely wrong.

And when you do reunite, you're not intimidated by him. You don't cower or put on a show of false bravado. You face him as if he was as harmless as a wet kitten. It annoys him, but that's quickly overpowered by a begrudged respect. What a curious woman. Bound, still, but...

Hm. You're wearing that glove again. Was it only one the last time? He can't remember.

He doesn't ask about you, however. He doesn't see the point right until he learns that you know Latin. Then, you have his attention. Then, you have the full focus of his gaze.

Only then will he invite you to his ship, a glass of wine offered from a hand adorned with rings, a fine dinner set on the table beneath his wide windows, and his eyes gleaming with a hardness that reminds you of a storm at sea.

And, when you reach out to take the glass, his dark eyes will settle on your glove.

- - -

Neia, like the Pirate, wouldn't notice it.

She's Neia, the former Dawnseeker. Everyone hides things from her. Even when they're innocent, Neia has a way of making people want to conceal as much of themselves as possible.

Like the pirate, it generally amuses her. It makes folks avoid her, which she prefers. Neia approaches who she wants. She doesn't like it when others approach her.

You catch her eye the same way so many pretty little things have caught before. She's sorry when she has to cut your meeting short because she sees how you tremble when she leans down towards you, not out of fear but something else, and Neia is seriously considering throwing you on top of the dead man's desk.

But she must go, and go she does, not expecting to ever see you again. When she does, and by some twist of fate, she finds herself traveling alongside you, sharing the same goal...

Neia won't shun your company, but she will rarely open her mouth. She keeps herself away unless you motion to have some fun in the bedroll. Other than that, Neia sees your glove, and she sees the evasive way you talk to others, but, for a while, she will see little else.

- - -

Lance notices it immediately.

It's not a coincidence that he was assigned to trail after you in Tarragona. Lance chose it. Mist would have preferred he went after Alessa, but something about your body language caught his trained eye.

He watches you from afar, and the more he sees, the more that feeling intensifies. You are hiding something. Lance finds himself smiling. He wants to know what.

The next day, he plays in the square, hoping you'll approach, and when you do, Lance does his best not to single you out among the crowd. It pleases him immensely when you drop that gold coin — it tells him something about you right from the get-go. You are either generous or care not for coin. Either way what most matters is that the first interaction between you two is one of kindness.

He plays you a song, able now to study your features up close, and has to keep the surprise off his face when you blush. Oh.

Oh.

When Lance finally introduces himself to you, he knows so much but not enough. He knows you know Latin. He knows you search for the maps Alessa came asking Tarek about. He knows you want to sink your claws in Rafael. He also knows, during that interrogation, that you tell nothing to your companions.

And now he wonders if you tell anything to anyone at all.

Truth be told, he's the same. He wouldn't have disclosed he used to be a monk, but Tarek wanted you to know, so Lance gritted his teeth and went along with it. Lance understands secrets — he understands how they ground you. If nothing else, you can control what you share, and what you open about yourself. And if you can do that, then perhaps, you're not completely at the mercy of others.

So, he understands. It doesn't make him any less curious, though.

- - -

Rafael doesn't want anything to do with you.

You don't like talkin'? Good for you. See if he cares. Actually, he does care. He hopes you like talking so little that he'll never have to hear your damned voice again.

Rafael knows your name, he knows you speak Latin, and most importantly, he knows you work for Tarek. In his eyes, he already knows more about you than he needs to.

He doesn't give a shit. True to God, he doesn't. So what if you speak to him like a human being? So what if you wordlessly pass him a bottle of ale and sit with him beneath the stars? So what if you say some quip that'll have his lips twisting and force a chuckle out of him?

And what of it if you grabbed Alessa's arm and gently but firmly pulled her away from him?

What matters if you choose to run to his help when he laid dying instead of chasing after the maps? Who cares if Rafael was relieved that at the very least, he wouldn't have to die alone?

... ya got a pretty face? Lots of pretty people around. He doesn't care.

But he listens attentively when someone asks about you — feigning that he's busy doing something else. And Rafael notes how you never truly answer. And then, when he's definitely not thinking about you at night, in his bed, Rafael realizes that he knows absolutely nothing about you.

But, at this point, you know so much about him.

It's like cold water hits him. He frowns, sneering at the dark. What a great fuckin' friend he is. Come the next day, he's stealing a new glove for you.

Maybe then, you'll share with him whatever the hell is going on with your palm.

- - -

Vallen thinks you ought to keep your lips shut.

Tell no one. Trust no one. She knows, and that's what matters.

She will put her hand over your mouth if she needs to. She will dig her nails in your jaw and speak with her mouth grazing the back of her knuckles.

"Are you mad? Madder than usual? If they know, if they catch a whiff of who you are." Vallen pauses here and slowly takes her hand away. She looks almost sorrowful as she moves to cup your face. "They will turn on you. Do you understand?"

You nod, swallowing the confessions that plague your consciousness.

Vallen kisses you. After a beat, you kiss her too.

• Romanus upset and being cheered up.

It's infuriating how quickly Hadrian catches on. You try to hide it. Honest to his God, you do, but sometimes you wonder if the man can read thoughts.

When you see him approach, you scowl your features to a neutral expression.

"Hello, love," Hadrian murmurs with his soft smile and his soft eyes and, when he leans to kiss you, his soft lips.

It's baffling that gentleness has tears prickling in your eyes. There has to be something wrong with you — what kind of wretched soul is saddened by love?

The unworthy, a cold voice whispers.

Your brows crease just the slightest bit, but of course, Hadrian catches it. "Something wrong?" he asks as if on instinct.

"Nothing," you lie, turning your head to the side. "I'm just tired."

There's a quiet pause where you can feel his gaze on you, but then, a gentle hand cups your cheek, guiding you to look back at him. Hadrian mutters your name in the way only he can: as if he speaks a line of a prayer.

That does it. You close your eyes, feeling a tear slide down your cheek to wet the skin of his finger.

Hadrian presses his lips to your forehead, big arms moving to envelop you. "I'm sorry." His voice rumbles by your ear as his heart beats beneath your other ear.

You give a broken chuckle. "What are you sorry about, big man?" you question, but you move to hug him back, closing your arms around him too. And you bite your lip to keep a sob down as tears fall freely now that you're in the safeness of his embrace.

"I don't know," Hadrian admits, dropping a kiss to the top of your head. "You don't have to tell me, you know. But... whatever it is. I'm sorry."

This big, sentimental man. "I'd tell you if I could," you whisper.

Hadrian's hands soothe down your back. "Why can't you?"

"I'm not quite sure myself."

Hadrian's arms tighten, pulling you closer to him as if he could shield you from the world. You don't tell him he can't shield you from yourself, you only follow when he moves to sit, pulling you into his lap. Warm and safe and so very Hadrian.

- - -

She notices, of course. How your eyes seem far away, looking but not seeing. You sit in a corner, shunning the firelight as a bat flees from the sun. You, who usually stands bright and center, your voice and smile commanding the room.

Alessa observes you quietly from afar, blue eyes like a frozen lake, face as impassive as yours. But ice creeps around her heart because the look does not fit you.

The silence does not fit you.

As often as she had rolled her eyes or scoffed at your quips, as many times as Alessa had called you a fool and hidden the smile that always threatens to overcome her lips, as she had loudly wished for quietness, now Alessa finds your silence wrong.

Cold. Much too cold for you.

But she gives you space. She lets you be, even as her legs beg to approach you. She's silent as you get up and walk to your room, but Alessa cannot help from following your footsteps. She cannot stop from passing the threshold when she sees you on the edge of your bed, your head bowed, your eyes closed.

She cannot help but sit beside you, swallowing the tick knot that clogs her throat. "My darling one," Alessa speaks at last, and if her voice shakes, she decides to ignore it. "What plagues you?"

You are silent. She dislikes it. She dislikes it so. “I—” your voice breaks, and you shake your head, and her heart shatters.

Alessa’s arms are around you in an instant. And she knows her skin is cold, and her embrace is sharp. She knows she is not good with words or warmth and comfort. Alessa knows it all, but her lips kiss your temple as tenderly as she can, and her voice is as gentle as her throat allows, and her eyes fight back the sting of tears.

“Hush,” she whispers, not knowing if she speaks to you or herself. Your shoulders shake, and Alessa squeezes you tight against her chest. Squeezes you as if she could take your pain within and make it her own. “Hush, darling one. I am here.”

She can’t say anymore. But hopefully, you do not need it. She can only hold you and hope that the morrow chases away the dark clouds that fill the night sky.

- - -

Alain strides quickly, smiling in anticipation.

His sparrow will love this. The gift is in his hand, and when Alain reaches the door to his chambers, he holds it behind his back, stepping inside with a boyish grin.

But his smile drops when he doesn't see you anywhere. Alain swallows the disappointment of you not watching his grand entrance and steps further in. "Sparrow?" he calls. "I'm back."

Silence.

The nobleman frows. Did you leave? Without telling him? Now, that's a slap in the face. He hesitates by the doors, but then, his ears catch the faintest of sounds.

A muffled sniff.

Alain walks carefully, something in him telling him that he should be quiet. He crosses the antechamber, then the reading room, and finally, he sees a large couch set under the stained windows. Sunlight streams in, marking the floor in the seven colors of the rainbow, but it's red that bathes your head as you sit on the velvet cushions.

You have your knees pressed to your chest and your arms tight around you.

Alain settles the gift on a nearby table, watching you with hooded eyes. This is... heavy. Personal. Intimate.

Everything he is not.

He decides it's best to turn back and leave you be. This is not what he does, after all. He's here for a good time, isn't he? He'll give you space, and when you're feeling like yourself, he'll gift you the perfume.

Yes, that's the plan. The only problem is, when Alain takes a step, he walks closer to you. "Ah, there you are," he says, putting on a crooked smile. "I thought you'd abandoned me. I had half a mind to call the guards on you. Never you bruise a lord's ego."

Alain waits for you to smile. To scoff, maybe. At the very least, he expects you to acknowledge him. So, he doesn't know what to do when you just keep your face pressed to your forearms.

Alain takes another step, looming over you, and, for the first time since he met you, you look so... small. Fragile. Something flickers in his heart, something that has him kneeling before you. "It's a bit cruel," he whispers in a voice he has only ever used on Ysabella. Whenever his sister cried when they were young or sought his comfort, Alain would provide it. Easily.

He never thought he'd provide it to another. "You denying me the view of your lovely face," he says, tugging a strand of hair behind your ear.

He hears you inhaling, and finally, you look up. The tears aren't a surprise, nor are your red eyes. What surprises him is the shame in your face. "I don't want you to see me like this," you say in a choked voice.

Alain lets his fingertips drift from your ear to your cheek. "And why is that, sparrow?"

You bite your lip, but Alain hears the stifled sob. "Please, Alain, just go."

The words hurt him. His pride flashes hot for a moment, but it quickly shatters when you turn your face away again. "I am many things," he whispers. "A liar, at times. A selfish man most of the time. But if you think I'm as cruel as to leave you when you're weeping like this, then sparrow, I really don't think you know me at all."

"And who's fault is that?" you snap, your voice sizzling like a snake.

Alain jerks his hand away as if you've burned him, and in a way, you have. He feels stung.

"Go."

It would be so easy to. He's good at going.

But instead, Alain puts one arm under your knees while the other locks behind your back. "You want to be an asshole? That's fine," he huffs and lifts you in his arms. You grab onto his biceps as Alain turns you both around and sinks onto the couch. "But you're not driving me away with that little nip. You’ll have to do better than that."

You stiffen in his arms, and when you look up, he sees your brows pinched and your narrowed eyes. Anger looks adorable on you — much better than grief, anyway.

"I know you can't tell by looking at me," he says, trying to grin, but Alain is sure his smile comes out much softer. "What with my perfect hair and flawless skin, but I'm not that fragile, sparrow."

Finally, a smile. It's small and sad, but Alain will take it. "You didn't have to specify the perfection of your skin and hair."

Alain chuckles. "Don't tell me you disagree."

Your laugh is mingled with a sob, and he can't help but kiss your temple. "Of course not," you whisper, molding yourself in his embrace.

Your back is flat against his chest, and his arms lock in your stomach. You're quiet for a while. Alain puts his chin on top of your head and settles his eyes on his wrapped gift.

"I didn't mean it." Comes your whisper. "I'm sorry."

"No need to apologize. You weren't wrong, were you?"

Your hands squeeze his wrist. "I was, and you didn't deserve it. I— I was lashing out."

"Do you want to tell me what has you like this?" Alain ventures. "Not that I mind having you in my arms, but I'll admit, I never bedded a crying partner."

You laugh quietly, no sob now. Alain is disgusted by how it warms his chest. "I hate to break it to you, lord Theer, but there won't be any bedding tonight."

"Alas, it's looking like that," he jokes, thumbs roaming your skin. Alain hesitates. The mood is lifted. He can stop here. He's done his part. He doesn't need... "But I know deflection when I hear it. Why are you crying?"

What has gotten into him?

You stay quiet. He turns his head, pressing his nose into the crook of your neck. Alain always liked your smell. Maybe the perfume is a bad gift, after all.

"Would you be offended if I didn't tell you?" you ask.

Alain considers it. "No," he says truthfully. "Not at all."

He doesn't see your smile, but he can hear it in your voice. "Thank you."

Alain hums, holding you a little bit tighter. He gently kisses your neck, trailing a path up your cheek, and stops beneath your eye. "What do you need of me?"

"Stay like this," you say, the words ringing like a question.

Alain surprises himself with the seriousness in his tone. "I can do that," he promises. "Whenever you need."

You answer in the form of a sweet kiss pressed to his jaw. Your lips are wet from your tears, and your breath is warm with sorrow.

Alain has been kissed by many, in so many ways, but as irony would have it, this sad, chaste kiss of yours is his new favorite.

- - -

I’ll do the rest of the ROs in the next Bonus Content post! This prompt is turning too big! 😄