No Ache like Longing (Patreon)

I had a dream

Hadrian stares at the ceiling, green eyes half-lidded in the gloom of night. The moonless sky is void of clouds, but still, there's not a star in sight.

His hands rest on his stomach, slacked and powerless, useless, as his head makes leaps and laps and runs in circles. Sleep has long abandoned him, but while Hadrian has no hope of resting, he prays silently that, at the very least, he may have some respite.

Some small break, a brief window of peace without you haunting his every waking thought. A deep sorrow has his throat in a knot, and a sense of loss tightens around his heart — can a man miss what he's never had?

Hadrian supposes he can because he's missing you right now, what he's never had. The night deepens. He can't see the ceiling any longer, but Hadrian keeps his eyes open.

Tracing your smile in the darkness.

That you were mine

The ocean rolls, waves interlapping over each other. Alessa watches them crashing on the white sand, the beach blue and dim in the light of an early winter day. The air freezes the inside of her throat, but Alessa takes deep breaths, taking comfort in the ache.

The roaring ocean is a sound like no other, but it's your voice that echoes in her ears, calling her name. 'Alessa.'

Alessa's eyes are a mirror to the waves. Motionless and icy blue. Her cheeks feel so cold, Alessa is sure she'll lose all feeling in a bit. She does not mind. Perhaps 'tis what she seeks. The loss of emotion. Perhaps then, she will stop hearing you calling her name.

What a foolish mess you have made of her. What a foolish, pathetic mess.

I had that dream

The lips are soft and pliant and so very eager. Alain tilts his head, and she follows as he knew she would, opening her pretty mouth to him, surrendering to his touch. He makes a noise of contentment and feels her lips tilt in a smile against his own.

It's the wrong smile. It's the wrong taste.

Alain frowns and tells himself it's close enough. "Lay down."

His conquest for the night smiles again, beautiful and seductive, but the nobleman has to look away. He sees her lying on his bed, over his bedsheets, and it too is wrong.

"Aren't you overdressed, my lord Alain?"

It's all so wrong. "I should go." Alain hears himself say. Her surprised look is barely registered, as is the flash of hurt. He's shaking his head, a plastered grin on his face. "I'm drunker than I realized. I wouldn't make for a satisfying partner, and you, lady Estelle, deserve me at my best."

Alain turns away with a curse on the tip of his tongue. "Damn you, sparrow."

A thousand times

The heat pressing against her back is almost oppressive. Ysabella feels the red tendrils scorching her skin as if it's a roaring fire. Her skin feels sweaty and swollen, and she longs to tear off her gown and go running into the dark gardens beyond her.

Her feet are stuffed in uncomfortable heels, and Ysabella has to take the deepest breaths her tight corset allows to keep the tears from rolling out.

She longs to run, to leap and splash her bare feet in the fountain. But what she longs the most, as her nails splint on the stone railing, is you.

A tear rolls down her cheek. She wishes you walked out of those silent bushes with your swagger and dirty armor and a smile as boundless as the never-ending blue sky.

Ysabella longs for you in the way an orphan longs for a sense of a family they never had.

A thousand times

He sits on his magnificent desk, his feet crossed on the top and his pipe hanging from loosened fingers. Grey smoke curls towards the wooden ceiling of the King of Pirate's ship.

An array of letters, charts, and maps sprawl before him — even beneath him, on the floor. He ought to be reading them, studying them, and planning for the next careful steps of his plan. And yet...

The Pirate has his pitch-black eyes settled on the window, where a pleasant day has blessed his fleet. And yet, his mind is overrun by you.

Four fingers tap on his leg. This isn't the first time he thought of you and he knows himself enough to know it won't be the last. He thinks of you when he stands at the helm of his ship, his armada filling the horizon, the sea calling his name, and the wind caressing his hair.

He thinks of you when his men are all drinking and feasting, and he stands in the shadowed highs, looking down at the crowd. He thinks of you when people part as he walks, and he's left standing alone in the middle of his cabin.

With an empty bed, and an even emptier table.

A beat of silence passes. The smoke rises from the pipe to the ceiling, curling, and twisting...

The Pirate straightens up, feet slamming on the ground, and searches for a blank scroll. He's got a letter to write.

Spirits willing, you open it.

A thousand times

The former Inquisitor raises her sword high, broken and a shameful ghost of what it once was, and slams it hard on the wooden pole. "Argh!" Neia yells, already twirling to assault the poor pole from another angle.

Sweat drips down her forehead and biceps. Her legs shake from the burden of carrying her massive form for so long. She recognizes when she's near the point of exhaustion, but the post is still standing, and she wants to tear it down.

"Urgh," she grunts as she cuts into it. The cursed thing still stands. The middle is thinner and vulnerable, chipped away by her relentless assault. But still, she thinks of you.

"Fuck." Neia hits it again.

She recalls your face when she came closer. Neia almost closes her eyes at what rises from her chest and logs at the back of her tongue.

She hits the poll again. The impact sends shockwaves through her arms, and a piercing pain digs into her right shoulder. She doesn't stop, wanting to move faster than her feverish mind.

It doesn't work, for Neia thinks of you still.

The poll breaks in two, the top half sent flying through the air.

And she almost yells, for still. She thinks of you.

I had that dream

Rafael stares at the bottom of his mug. Is it empty already? He could have sworn he had just paid for a refill. Did the fuckin' barkeep conned him?

Rafael tries to glare at the figure behind the counter, but there are three of them, and he doesn't know which one to turn to. Shit, he settles on the middle one. "Hey! I know what ya did, ya bastard."

"Go home."

Rafael scoffs. "You owe me another cup."

The left of the three identical men sighs. "You've had enough. Why don't you call it a night?"

Rafael doesn't have the mental faculty to do anything else but scoff again. "What ar' ya? My ma? Don't think so."

Another sigh, but his mug is filled. "Last one," the man warns.

Rafael ignores him, taking another deep swing. God damn, you're still here. You're still lurkin' around in his head. "Get out," Rafael mutters, angry now. Why won't you leave him alone? "Get lost, ya freak!"

But you don't. You hang onto his thoughts like the dreams he once had. "I know I'm shit. I know I'm nothin' next ta you. You don't need—" God, is he actually crying? If Rafael could have, he would have laughed. "Just leave me be."

A pair of gentle hands grab his arm and guide him out of the stool. "Let's get you to a bed, uh?" the barkeep says, leading Rafael to the back of the inn. "Sleep doesn't help a broken heart, but it'll ease the coming headache."

"S'not a broken heart," Rafael protests, but he lets himself go, wishing only that you'd stop following.

A thousand times

The dirk hangs from her fingers, the tip pointed down to the space between her feet. Vallen looks down, watching the blood slowly drip down the blade.

Blop.

A red drop spreads on the floor.

Blop. Blop.

It's not her blood. It's the blood of one who attacked you. Vallen had reacted without thinking — she acted so quickly, thought had no hope to catch up. When had you become part of her instincts?

Her round hazel eyes are impossibly still, not blinking as the red pool slowly widens. It touches the sole of her boot, but Vallen doesn't move her leg.

She wants nothing. She hopes for nothing.

But here she finds herself, wanting for you.

I found your old house

"I didn't even try," Lance sings in a gravelly voice that mingles with the rain. "They'd closed the shutters. They'd pull the blinds."

His room is empty save for Chouriça, who sleeps beneath his blankets. "My eyes were red. The streets were bright."

Lance plays along at his lyre, the grey in his eyes as static as the glass on the window. Beyond, he can see nothing but a curtain of rain. He uses it as the rhythm to which he plucks the notes from the strings. "Those ancient years were black and white."

This isn't his song. It's his master's, the one who taught him how to play and sing. Lance knows it by heart, but never before has it meant something.

"But all that I have is this old dream I always had."

Never before has he played it with someone in his mind. You, of course. You have been on his mind.

"A thousand times," Lance continues on to a lone room on a chilly day, singing to your imaginary presence the words he's too spineless to admit to your real one. "I had that dream a thousand times."

- - -

I was listening to the song A 1000 Times by Hamilton Leithauser + Rostam when I was seized by inspiration. This is written hastily and is more or less a character study without much sense, but I hope you take some enjoyment from my rambles. ♡