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| Details |
| Author: | Athena |
| Summary: | Natalyah returns with a possibly plan for a heist to look into Count Amerith's interest in Lathrik. The paladin has some adjustments to make to the plan, and some secrets to reveal. Natalyah has some confessions to make. Please see CWs for sensitive content. 13,500~ words, personal character and romantic RP. |
| Rating: | M for Mature 17+ |
Arc: The Red String Game
Natalyah is in a high flying mood when she returns to the house. One that lasts approximately fourteen seconds into the path to the door before the scent hits her — worgen. And not one she recognizes. Unfamiliar worgen scent.
The change to her beast form is instantaneous, and if the neighbors happen to be looking out at that precise moment, they get an eyeful of how weird the paladin's household has become, despite appearances of recent domestic normalcy.
Natalyah moves around the perimeter, tracing the scent, growling low but audibly. The trail of it moves away from the house, possibly deliberately something she could follow, but all she does is run a clawed hand over part of the wall where the scent is, leaving faint scratch marks in the stone. She shifts back to her human shape, and pushes back to the house, opening the door, and slamming it behind her.
She doesn't come back out for the rest of the day. As evening harkens its start, an hour before Lathrik is set to return as usual for his longer work day, she starts on dinner. It is not markedly improved from her previous attempts, although she has graduated away from charcoal to just charred on the meat, and her vegetables are limp but no longer begging for a resurrection from the cooking grave.
The candles are lit to warm up the house's illumination, and the windows are cracked open to let out the cooking heat and let in the relative cooling evening air. Her humming has upgraded to periodic singing, and her voice carries a little out into the front yard, and while it's not exceptional, there's perhaps a sweetness to it for what it represents.
Lathrik is twenty minutes late. When he finally does come home, he dumps his sword and armor on the shelf by the door as usual, and flops onto the couch with a mana potion. There is a new bruise on the right side of his forehead.
Natalyah comes out of her room, her eyes at the door, smiling with wicked excitement, Lathrik is ho — where is he. The smile drops for a moment.
She looks from the door to the couch, ah, he didn't go far. The smile pops back on, as she moves over to the couch, until she sees the bruise. The smile is gone again, and the speed of her movement over to him is double time.
"You're hurt!" She accuses him, as she squeezes onto the couch to sit so that she can move her canes off to the side and reach out to put her hands on either side of his face. Distress and anger wage a territory war on her expression.
Lathrik shrugs. “Got called to handle a domestic dispute,” he says. “Couple people were mad and throwin’ things at each other, and one of them threw a can of coffee grounds as I was stepping in to keep them apart, and… Bad timing, is all. Now, before you start, I already got the speech from Ren about how I’m not supposed to block things with my head. They were nice about it, when I woke up. Seems putting me out calmed them down some.”
Natalyah goes ashen at the revelation that it fully knocked him unconscious, and then she flushes an angry dark red, her brows drawn down tightly. "Fine then, if Ren started it, I'll finish it." That sounds ominous.
"Hold still, and be quiet," she bids him, as she holds onto his face, staring intently at him for a few heartbeats. Then she scoffs, annoyed, and closes her eyes. Nope, that's even more difficult. She opens them again, and this time covers Lathrik's eyes with a hand, the other still near the bruise and the site of his likely concussion.
He can hear her breathing, smell the jasmine perfume she wears, feel the warmth of her touching him.
And then he can feel something else: the Light.
Even through her fingers over his eyes, it's visible, as she channels it into him, the [Holy Light] cast like a summer monsoon, rushing into him. It's something of an over-casting, uncontrolled passion asking for help willingly given, and she leans more into him as it finishes, her hand over his eyes trailing down to his jaw.
There is a gasp from Lathrik at the first touch of the Light, and a small, prickly snag of resistance that washes away in the oncoming deluge. The bruise shrinks until barely a mark remains, and when she moves her hand from his eyes, her fingers come away wet. He wipes at the tears with his other hand, drawing a shaky breath, his body still glowing with a soft Light that the evening’s fading sun cannot take credit for.
“Sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t…expecting that. You can…use the Light?”
Soft sympathy and giddy satisfaction struggle for space in her expression, as she squeezes in closer to him and brushes her fingers along the edges of his beard in a firm pressure. The hand by his bruise drops down to set on his chest, outside the range of the cursed runes.
"Maybe?" She is definitely not whispering back. Her voice is higher, warbling ever so slightly in emotion. "It's only been twice ever, at most, just this past week. Both times on you, for you. Once when you didn't wake up, and now. I healed you." She smiles at him, that curling that makes her look like she has a secret she's going to share with him. She gives a happy sort of yelp, and launches herself forward into him, aiming to kiss him thoroughly, in a combination of sweet relief and whimsical joy that she's done it: she's healed him. A little, at least.
Unlike his brother, Lathrik is perfectly capable of catching her, and he does, returning her kisses with his own. Whatever just happened here, the Light, the joy, is better than whatever speech she was planning to finish.
Or maybe that comes later.
She ends up sprawling over him on the couch, with several forceful kisses on his opposite unbruised temple, his cheekbone, his jaw, and then settles herself into her favorite place of the crook of his neck, snuggling against him as she breathes him in.
And jabs a finger into his chest. "Next time, and we both know there's going to be a next time," she huffs, "that you get hurt, you get to me as soon as you can. If you can't ask the Light to heal you, then I will." Her threatening sounding words are at odds with the soft nuzzle of lips and nose against his skin. "At least I'll try. I can't guarantee — I don't know how well it will go every time. It never has come to me before, but you saw it just now. I did it. It worked. I can heal you. So if you insist on blocking things with your stupidly handsome face or the rest of your body, then you'll damn well be healed properly."
Lathrik chuckles and enfolds her in his arms. “I’ll try, but ye know I’m not always stationed here. There’ll be times I’m sent off to the distant corners, like how they had me in Southshore for a while. But, in the meantime, if you’ve only called it twice, ye could use the practice. Flood me like that every time and my moniker will change to Man of a Thousand Tears.”
Despite his joke, his gaze on her is filled with fondness, reflected in the gentle way he holds her, supporting her to increase comfort levels. Quieter, he murmurs, “Well done.”
Whatever wind up she had going — possibly about where he's stationed, possibly about telling her to practice, who can say — is foiled by the praise, as she melts happily into him with a soft giggle. "I did tell you that I learned about it, and how to do it," she reminds him tartly, but there's hardly any bite to it at all. "And I'm — " Hm. What is she to Lathrik? There's a bit of a start and stop before she finds a word. "Involved with a man who has said he's made a career of combat experience in taking injuries, so practice is inevitable on my side, and some amount of tear dehydration on yours, so you will have to keep drinking more water."
That's an order from your girlfriend? Involvement, Lathrik. She kisses the place where the collar of his shirt meets the bare skin of his neck.
He closes his eyes as she kisses his neck. “Aye,” he says. “I suppose I will.” His demeanor is loose and relaxed. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say he could fall asleep like this. Instead, he opens his eyes again and lightly kisses her forehead. “How was your day, then?”
Relaxation in progress. She's a warm, soft woman pressed against him, an affectionate blanket that is also nuzzling along his collar with a light sweep of her tongue against his skin. The hand on his chest wanders a little lower, coming to a stop along his abs, petting him idly as if he's the one with the fur coat who might enjoy belly rubs.
"It went well. Mostly. There was a worgen I don't recognize around our home, who left a trail all around the perimeter, and it went deliberately off into the city like an obvious trap," Natalyah tells him archly, a disgruntled growl edging into her voice. "I wasn't here when they left it though. I was at Peril's, working out a deal for some work, and for helping you with your curse and your stalker."
Relaxation over. Hope he enjoyed his sum total of maybe three minutes of relaxation.
There is a soft hum of acknowledgment as his own fingers wander up and down her side, his expression distant and dream-like. Until the information processes. “A worgen? And you did what with Peril?” His gaze is now sharp and alert.
"The worgen, I don't know. They were definitely not just passing by idly. Their scent was all around the house, probably because mine is. I don't recognize the scent, so I don't know who it is, or if they'll be back again, or what their intent was," Natalyah huffs, a streak of annoyance and anger sharpening her voice.
It subsides as she continues, more brightly, excitement in her voice, and an electric energy to her as she presses up to look at him in the face. "I went to speak with him about getting him better able to put out an edition of the Azerothian Interest. Worgens are a hot topic, and I gave him information that he could really use, like about our missing shoes and vanishing fingers. We did an experiment to determine which one it is, it was fascinating." She taps her fingers on him. "And we spoke about all that we knew combined of your curse, and what we might do about it, and about the fact that Count Amerith has his employee maid and possibly spy slash assassin Ilanya Ravendusk watching you, and we've put together a possible plan to investigate into it."
And here Lathrik just thought it was a Wednesday.
Lathrik blinks at the sudden onslaught of information. “Oi. Slow down,” he says. “First off, the Azerothian Interest? That paper is nothing but lies made print. If he publishes anything on worgen, it’ll just offend people and I’ll be stuck cleaning it up.”
"It's absurdist humor in print. It's meant to be funny, and part of the humor is in the silliness of the lies. Only fools would take it on the level as true, and that is not Peril's fault. They'd believe any stupid rumor that came their way, regardless of the Azerothian Interest. Everything I told him is true, and of course everything especially ridiculous that he could print won't be really true, but it would be funny if it was, and right now people could use a laugh about worgen, because some people are still frightened of us, and repulsed by just the sight of us." The way she says it, the tense, stark hurt on her face, and how she slinks down slightly, curling a hand around his shoulder like a touchstone, suggests that she had that reminder very recently; a few hours ago, perhaps. "Might as well face it head on, and make up our own ridiculousness, rather than waiting for fools to start their own whisper campaign of malicious rumors."
Lathrik sighs. “Nothing good comes of riling the fools, but fine, I’ll let this one go.” The way he holds her becomes more protective, seeming at odds with his spoken reluctance. Perhaps he is recalling a certain conversation from Duskwood.
“Ye spoke of the curse,” he says. “That’s… a difficult topic, for Peril. How’d he take it?”
"Strangely at times? He said that, well aside from you obviously, he's never spoken of it with someone else before. It's not like I have much experience either, so we muddled through. He did say that he was grateful for me, because I'm obviously wonderful, and that if I could heal you, it'd be a weight off his mind. I should make sure to tell him about that when I hand off my article draft for the paper." She preens a little under the praise from earlier, and then shifts to a new thought that darkens her expression like a cloud passing over the sun.
"Oh, and he didn't know you haven't been waking up normally more and more," she says, poking his abs accusingly. "You didn't tell him. And so that has him worried, and he agrees with me that we have to try something soon, ask different experts or whatever. You're getting worse, and maybe it's something to do with the fact that Peril says SI:7 believes your mother has joined Twilight's Hammer."
“Aye, we haven’t spoken of it to others. Not in a conversational way, at least. There are some few who know, the information spread at Shaw’s discretion. It was more of an interrogation, at the time.” Lathrik’s expression tightens. “And I didn’t tell Peril about the sleeping issue because he’s like to do something foolish. The man’s got enough on his plate without worrying over things he can’t fix.”
"Who says he can't, or at least, maybe he alone can't fix it, but he's not alone, and neither are you. And it's time you both stopped acting like it, or believing what you were told before that there isn't anything more you can do. You have your friends, and you have me." She looks him in the eyes like she dares him to discount her in the mix. She's not useless or helpless.
"You know, I don't think you'd allow this sort of lack of action for anyone else besides yourself. If it could be done — and I'm not saying it can be or that I would try, it's only a hypothetical — that I could take the curse from you onto myself, with all that it entails right now, I don't believe for one second that you would shrug and say, 'oh, it's not an emergency,' and you'd leave it be for twenty-five years without trying something, anything, to fix it, even foolish things in the hope that maybe that would be the answer."
“I…” Lathrik loses a shade of color and gently moves her off of him, leaning forward like he’s about to be sick. He isn’t, mercifully. “’Talyah, you don’t understand…” he says softly, raising one hand to press against his chest. “This is… It’s a connection to my mother. I know…it can’t go on like this forever, but I’m… afraid of losing it. I’m afraid of losing her again.”
She is not happy to be relocated, but she doesn't stop him from moving her, only presses up against his side in support. "You're right about one thing — I don't understand. I don't understand why you wouldn't want to fix this, whatever this is, so that if there was even the smallest chance of actually having a real connection with your mother, you could. I don't know what this was supposed to be, if she meant it to be like this or if it was something that went wrong, and twisted with Shadow. It was hardly a studied field back then, no one could blame her for faulty protocols in desperation. And I know that you can heal with shadow, in a strange way. It might not have been meant as a curse, but some sort of protection, and it backfired.
"But no matter what she intended to happen, what is happening is that it's killing you, slowly. Anyone can see that. If your mother could see it, and she isn't completely gone already, she should hate what this is. A mother who would wish this on her son isn't a good person, Lathrik.
“Something has to change, and if we can find a way to find her, the real her, you won't need this thing anyway, especially if we can find a way to remove it without killing her, or maybe without killing her permanently, like with one of those shadow warlock things, a soul stone or something. You'd have the real person, and maybe breaking this twisted connection would even…I don't know… break the hold Shadow has on her, do something about the Twilight's Hammer nonsense. But we won't know until we try, and we have to try something before it's too late, maybe for both of you," she says, forcing her hand into his to hold it, like she's afraid he'll leap off the couch and try to run away, which is really more of her own move, but here we are.
“You think it was… an accident?” Lathrik asks, looking over at her, an almost childlike expression of hope on his face. “I hadn’t…considered that she might have meant for something different. Something better, that didn’t come out right.” Something in his eyes changes as he finally seems to hit on it, the idea that maybe it isn’t supposed to be this way. “But… we still need to find her.”
"I think that I don't know if this was on purpose or an accident or some strange combination, is what really matters. And I do know enough about Shadow to know that the line between Void and what we call 'Shadow' is sometimes a thin line of intent and knowing what you're doing. I won't say that someone couldn't have done this on purpose, that she wasn't a good person and her son was a convenient target, or that the Void didn't twist her and make her into something she wasn't before that moment, but no good scientist goes into something deciding the outcome of the data beforehand. You make a hypothesis, and you let the observational data prove or disprove it," she says tartly, and a little defensively, like Lathrik might come for the Scientific Method. "Right now, there just isn't enough to this that says there is no way she couldn't have meant it for something good and failed, and if we can't disprove it, we must keep it on the hypothesis.
"As for finding her, that's why we were talking about figuring out more about why Count Amerith is interested in you, because if he isn't evil, which honestly Peril did not convince me he isn't, then he might have the actual resources to find her, and we need to know what the risks are if we approach him about any of this," she explains, and her hand tightens on his.
“You want to use Count Amerith.” Lathrik leans back against the couch. He doesn’t remove his hand from hers, but he looks exhausted suddenly. “How d’ye expect to determine the risks? Asking him won’t help.”
She leans back with him, moving up against him not unlike she might be trying to figure out a way to wrap around him from his position. "Finding out what has him interested in you is part of the first step, because depending on if it's because you're Peril's brother, or if he already has a suspicion about the curse will tell us if he's going to just be dangerous to your career, or your life itself. We know that Ilanya is watching you when you go out to bars. So, we get Hana and Joelle to help us set up the sting, to lure Ilanya out to watch you. Hana works the bar, Joelle remains nearby like your agreement, and you do your bar thing." She growls low at even the full suggestion, from herself, and frowns at him. "Not all of it, obviously. No women. She can report it as an anomaly of observed behavior, which gives her a reason to bring it to the Count.
"As for how we observe the Count, that's where I come in, although we'll have to use a bit of help, because I can't look through a person's e — " She stops mid sentence, and it's her turn go slightly ashy, her eyes going unfocused, and she swallows hard. "I can cast my sight into animals, and Count Amerith has a lion," she continues, not looking at Lathrik, but holding onto his hand. "I can jump from something to the lion, if we can get something into the house, like a rat, which Reniya could probably do without getting caught.
“Then I just hope the lion is in place, and that the Count and Ilanya talk nearby. I can't hear anything but I can read lips pretty well, and body language enough to probably get a gist. Any information we could get would be more than we have now. That's what we have working so far, but we should really get everyone together to work on it, in case someone has more knowledge, Hana, Tabiana, Joelle, Reniya, Peril, you, and me. A team."
He slides an arm around her during the break in her sentence, providing support and perhaps reminding her that he’s with her. The rest of the plan does not seem to go over well, his expression shifting from a puzzled frown, to a look of mild irritation.
“You want Ren to break into the manor of a noble who sits on the House of Nobles, so he can deposit a rat,” Lathrik says flatly. “After which, you will proceed to spy on him using his…lion. Clearly, you’ve spent too much time with Peril.”
"I need a way to get my eyes into the mansion without him knowing it, because we cannot ask him and we can't risk anyone actually being found out. Yes, obviously, the easiest thing would be to just keep my eyes on a person but I can't — " She shudders, and curls up into herself. Her voice approaches a shrill pitch he's heard before, when she's been actually afraid of feral worgen coming for them. "I haven't been able to do that. Not since Rhodes."
“Easy, easy,” he murmurs, pulling her closer. “No one’s asking you to do that right now.” One hand reaches out to stroke her hair soothingly. “It can be worked through. Slowly.” There is deep concern in his eyes as he gazes at her, whatever irritation he felt earlier thoroughly discarded.
"Slowly isn't good enough, not if we do need this now, and I don't know if — " She pulls her hand from his so she can grab onto herself, set at her arms, fingers clawed but still human, although it's obviously a struggle now. Black fur peeks up along her hands, and she pants louder. "I can't even think about it without seeing — " Neither of these sentences finish, and the shake of her body grows, before she turns into him, face at his neck, breathing in sharp, and fast, as she attempts to find enough calm to halt the spiral.
It works, though it leaves her twitching like she's been stung several times. "If we wait on me to fix this, and something happens to you before I could do anything, I would never forgive myself," she whispers furiously into him. "I've already done unforgivable things. I can't bear another."
Lathrik places his newly freed hand on her shoulder. “Listen to me, ‘Talyah,” he says, his voice calm, but firm. “You and Peril both are treating this like it’s going to end one way. That it hinges on whether or not you do something to see it, or stop it. I know it scares you, not knowing, but I won’t have you overreaching for something you’re not ready for. Peril’s already stretched himself beyond his capabilities; I won’t have you breaking yourself over this. I’d sooner march up to confront the Count myself. And as far as I’m aware, you haven’t done anything that should be considered unforgivable.”
"That's the key words — as far as you're aware," she repeats hollow voiced. "Because you don't know. You don't know about Rhodes and you don't know about the Berners." She sighs into him, heavy and she sags with it, like she's lost some vitality in the expulsion. "I got a man killed. In every way, I am responsible for his death, a man who dedicated his entire life to mine. I brought him straight to his end, and I did nothing while he died. I froze and I didn't do anything to stop it."
She gestures to her left leg with a listless hand. "I was born like this, my leg. Helpless. Useless. Fragile. I didn't walk on my own until I was nine-years-old. When I was ten, my parents insisted on a guard with me, a permanent babysitter to monitor me, to be there for every fall, because obviously I couldn't look after myself," she says scathingly, hot and old anger crackling through her voice. "Rhodes was twenty, newly knighted, and I was his sole responsibility. He followed me everywhere. I hated him for a long time, but when I found out that maybe I wouldn't have to give up a dream of studying butterflies, that the village children's tales about witches who could look through another's eyes were real and based on an actual technique, it was Rhodes who offered to be my eyes in the field.
"That's how I did it, studied them despite not having the ability to walk and write, or move over uneven ground, or crouch for hours, or everything people with two legs can do. We worked out a system of hand signals to me, and I had a flare gun for him for emergencies. He went into the field and I was safe somewhere else, watching through his eyes.
"When we went to Gilneas, we stayed with the Berners, a family at the edge of woods I needed." Her voice grows thicker, shakier, and she breathes faster, clutching onto herself like she's trying to hold the change back manually. "When the wall came down, I chose to stay, and so Rhodes had to stay with me. We found out about the worgen, year 21. That was when it all…went wrong. But for three years, I insisted on continuing my research. So he went out in the woods, because I told him to. I knew worgen were there, and I chose it anyway.
"When it all happened, I was in a field, with my books, and he was deeper in the forest. He knew they were coming before I understood what was happening. He looked back at where I was, where the worgen might have gone, and he told me to — " She can't hold the human shape any longer, a sob wrenching out of her, as the black fur rolls over her. "He told me to run, to go. And he drew attention to himself. To buy me time. And I couldn't — I didn't — I just watched, as they ripped him apart, and he fought and fought, and he looked to where I was, he signed my name, and then it was just torn away. He died, and they still — " Found her, goes unspoken. He knows that part.
"It was all my fault. I tried to get to the Berners, and I don't know if I ever did. If it was them or if it was me who did it. When I went back four years later, they had been killed by worgen, likely that same day Rhodes was. And I don't know if I did or not, if my last thought to try to get to them brought me there, and I killed them all, the children the — " The sobbing grows into the start of a pained howl that she cuts off with effort, saying nothing more.
Lathrik listens patiently, silently, as she tells her story, his thumb gently stroking her shoulder. In his eyes is a mix of compassion, sorrow, and acceptance. He doesn’t say anything, not with words. Maybe he feels now is not the time to.
When the sobs begin, he folds her into a hug, the petting expanding from her hair clear down her back, and starting over again. He shows no sign of leaving, or criticizing, or lecturing her, just a calm and steady presence, a rock in a tempest.
It takes her a while to stop, fully, and by the time she does, curled up against him, when the shift happens again, it takes her longer than he's ever seen it before, not effortless, the iridescence stronger, flowing over her as she shrinks, the fur retreating as if covered by something.
Her head is bowed, bent fully into a vulnerable curve, as she rests her head against his chest, maybe listening to his heartbeat.
“Is this the first time you’ve spoken of it in detail, since it happened?” he asks softly, still brushing his fingers through her hair.
"Yes." Her voice is small, and hoarse, spoken into his chest and barely audible, but the sounds are distinct enough to be sure of the word.
“You haven’t had the proper time or safety to grieve,” he says. “But you have both here, alright? I’ll sit with you as long as you like. Just like this.”
She pulls away from him as if stung by something, head still bowed, but now pushing her arms at him as if to fight off the offer. "Grieve? What, wash away the blood on my hands if I cry enough tears? Anything I feel that hurts is something I deserve, something I should, because I owe them that much. Some things shouldn't be forgiven, and the only thing I should do is make certain I never let it happen again. I won't watch someone else die because of me, and I won't just sit there doing nothing." She sniffles, starting to move as if she'd get up, to leave the comfort she doesn't believe she should have.
“You don’t owe them anything,” Lathrik says, though he makes no move to stop her. “One of them made a choice, and took responsibility for that choice, and the rest… if you can blame yourself for that, you may as well call every cursed Gilnean a murderer.”
She still won't look at him, as she grabs for her canes, now moving with more urgency from him. "I don't think you realize how true that is, for so many of us, how many live with knowing they killed and maimed and cursed so many with the years they were lost to the beast. But at least the Gilneans, they were supposed to be there. It was their home. It wasn't mine. I had no right. If I hadn't been there, if I hadn't been the one living there with them, been the one to survive to be cursed, they might all be alive." She stands up, but she doesn't actually go anywhere, just stands there.
"And you didn't know Rhodes. He didn't make a real choice. He had a duty, and it was to see to his lady's command, no matter what it was. I could have ordered him to leap off a cliff, and he would have done it, without question. He probably knew that going into the woods there would get him killed, but it was my order, so he did it. He never once, not ever, told me no, never disobeyed a single thing I told him to do. I grew up thinking he was there to protect me, but really, his life was always in my hands, and I —." She shudders again, a shiver that seizes her, like she's freezing suddenly there in the summer warm room.
“The Gilneans are not murderers, and neither are you. As you said, you all were lost to the beast; whatever magic began the curse. Might has well have been a twister that did the killing, or some other force of nature. You can be mad at it, but blaming it is futile. And you’re right, I didn’t know Rhodes. I can’t imagine someone having so weak a will that they would throw their life away without knowing why, or endanger a person because they were ordered to.
“As for your part,” Lathrik sighs. “Natalyah, a person can’t live in this world without making an impact, for better or worse. You had every right to be where you were, because you are alive and free to make choices. They’re not always going to be good choices. You’re not going to forget what happened. It may never stop hurting entirely. But to say that you deserve it, is…”
Lathrik trails off. Is he really the one to be making this argument? Uncertainty flickers across his face.
She spins in place to face him, her eyes blazing with pain, red rimmed, and wildly desperate. "Is what? Harsh? Unfair? It doesn't make it untrue. I can't undo the choices I made or who I was then, but I don't have to repeat them, and I don't have to be her. I'm not going to sit by and be helpless and useless, and watch someone I — " An odd halting pause. "Care for suffer when there is something, anything I can do for him."
Now it's her turn to look uncertain, near panic, and strangely penitent. "I've been trying to tell you what I did. That I was horrible and a monster, and I know what it's like to hate yourself so much you can't forgive yourself. I just… didn't want you to hate me. So maybe I'm still horrible after all."
“The thing I hate,” Lathrik says, slowly pushing to his feet, a golden shimmer surrounding him as if to emphasize his words, “is hearing the words ‘horrible’ and ‘monster’ used to describe the woman I care for.” His gaze on her is stern.
He's probably growing used to it by now, the warning signs of sudden strength of feeling, watching that painful hopeful and desperate relief vie for dominance on her face, and the need to touch him overwhelming her, so that she launches herself into his arms.
She hasn't secured her wrists through the leather straps, so when she lets go of her canes, they clatter to the floor, one of them rolling under the coffee table. It's fine. She lives here.
The weight of her body hits him with some degree of force, a tempest, and the change of the tenor of the embrace of what she's seeking from him changes like flash floods and sudden storms: comfort, forgiveness, passion. One breath she's curling into the crook of his neck, another sighing as she almost curves away from him, only in the next heartbeat pressing forward to kiss him fiercely.
Lathrik holds steady as she springs at him, catching her without an ounce of uncertainty that he would succeed. The Light that spills out around him is hot; almost uncomfortably so, reflecting something in him, some boiling anger barely contained. It isn’t directed at her, that much is clear, as he meets her kiss with a greedy passion, but it can be felt in the way he holds her, an intensely possessive grip, as if he’s daring anything to try taking her from him.
The hold on her only seems to electrify her further, a wildness building higher, less of a butterfly and more caught lightning. Her hands roam ravenously across his shoulders, down the hard planes of the muscles of his back, sliding over his shirt and pulling on it upwards to seek out the skin beneath with a frenetic energy as they're both on fire and the only way to douse it is with skin-to-skin contact.
"Lathrik," she croons in between kisses, a low encouraging moan close behind as she presses her hips harder against him. "Lathrik, I need you, I — "
The words do something wrong as she hears them, making her flinch in a sting, but she doesn't push away; she only gasps, shifts her head, and presses her face into the space where his neck meets his shoulder: The Safety Zone. "I need to tell you something," she confesses. "About Rhodes, and me." Uh oh. Anything she's interrupting this for probably isn't a good something.
He’s ready. He’s ready to have her right there on the couch, and his fingers are seeking the buttons at the top of her dress, fumbling a little, because buttons. And then she stops him. He lets out a low growl of frustration at the interruption, — how many times as it been now? — but adjusts his grip on her to a more casual hold.
“About…Rhodes?” he asks, still fighting the whiplash.
Consider this your penance for all the women you start and stopped with, maybe, Lathrik. Or not, also fair.
Despite the fact that she brought it up, it takes her a moment to start. There's something about the cadence of the way she speaks when she does begin that suggests both that she's never said these things out loud before, maybe thought about them, and that guilt and shame have throttled any joy there might have once been in the story.
"Reniya's said about you that you haven't…been with someone a certain way. It doesn't matter to me if you have or haven't, or how much you've done or not. But you should know, I have. Six months before he died, Rhodes and I — " No, an adjustment. "I took Rhodes as a lover. I didn't order him," she says defensively, like Lathrik might have immediately suspected that's how it happened. "I thought at the time that it was what he wanted, too. It was…it was just us in Gilneas, and it felt like we'd never go back home, and I… thought that I l-loved him. Or something like it. I thought he felt the same.
"A month before it all… before he died, the oldest daughter of the Berners, Jenea, cornered him into the barn. They didn't know I was there. My eyes were in the horse. I was practicing jumping from the barn cat to the horse and back, and I — " That explanation is probably an unnecessary addition. She shakes her head, her hair brushing across his cheek in a silken caress, as she speaks haltingly into his neck, where she doesn't have to look at him.
"I wasn't going to spy on them, but she kissed him, and he didn't push her away." The hurt is as sharp as if it happened just months ago, and not over four years ago. "She said something about 'what about her, doesn't he love her, what happened.' And he said." She stops. Breathes in Lathrik so deeply he can feel her chest expand against him.
"He didn't say that he loved me, that it was because he realized he had feelings for me. He said, 'my lady needs me. She is who I serve.'" A tremble goes through her, as if hearing the words again out loud hurts her to say. "And I didn't know… I swear, I didn't know that it wasn't… I hardly spoke to him after, I was so angry and hurt, but then the chrysalis stage was ending, and so I sent him out. To serve me to death, after I ruined his life. I didn't realize he wouldn't have never said no to me, not even for what he felt for someone else."
Much as he tries to keep his expression neutral, there is an undeniable tightness in Lathrik’s jaw throughout the story, and the more she reveals, the more his eyes seem to glow with anger, tiny flecks of golden Light mixing with the brown, increasing the intensity of his gaze. His eyes are probably visible in the dark, now.
Again there is silence, though this time it is forced, as if the next thing out of his mouth would be a venom so potent that even he, a paladin, could not mitigate its effects. But the anger keeps building, and decides to show itself in other ways. Wings, hot and fierce, and crackling with Light split the air behind him, a wrathful energy ready to be unleashed.
Fortunately, the unleashing doesn’t happen. Lathrik reins it in just enough to keep it from exploding outward, or hurting someone.
She might miss the eyes, but the wings are another thing. She leans back, although she keeps her tight hold on him, as her eyes widen into large velvet pools that reflect the Light caught in them, an awe in her expression, and strange yearning, as if she's barely restraining the urge to reach out and touch them and the only thing stopping her is that she'd have to first let go of Lathrik's physical body, which she seems very unwilling to do.
He takes a breath, slow and steady, a hand running along her back in a soothing gesture, possibly for both their sakes.
She's still watching him, wide eyed, as he tries to calm, her expression too swarmed with feeling for any to show clearly.
When he finally speaks, it is a soft murmur, his voice tense with suppressed feeling.
“I would like to smite your circumstances,” he says.
Maybe that means resurrecting Rhodes so he can punch the man, or going back in time to single-handedly fight off the worgen curse, who can say.
Is it the phrasing itself that does it, or just the moment, a tension pulled so taut that something needs to break it? Whichever it is, what happens is that Natalyah bursts into her brightest, happiest startled laugh, completely unfettered and unrestrained, her head falling back and her body shaking with amused joy that blazes out the hurt, the pain, the shame as surely as if Lathrik had, indeed, found a way to smite it.
She laughs hard enough for her eyes to glisten with tears when she looks at him with a meltingly soft expression. "That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me," she tells him, her face alight as if with a wicked secret only he gets to know.
Lathrik’s eyes soften with relief when she laughs, as if he’d held some small fear that she might misunderstand him. The Light and tension in him breaks, the former scattering like a shower of stars, glittering in the air for a moment before winking out of sight. He takes another, deeper breath, resting his head against hers as if they’ve both just survived a chaotic event and exhaustion is finally setting in.
“Is it, then.” It’s more of a lightly amused comment than a question.
"Well, it's true the competition was fierce. I've been compared to a summer's day in a poem that was a blatant rip off of an actual published poet, and had a man offer the entirety of his library for the chance to kiss my foot, but if I had to choose…" She slides a hand along his back, as if she might still be able to feel the remnant of where the wings were. "I'd choose what you say to me every time. I like the way you talk to me."
“What, normally?” Lathrik asks, making a face at the other two options. People are weird, but he probably already knew that, considering who his brother is.
"Like you're not even a little intimidated by me, and you're not afraid to tell me what you really think, even when what you think is that I'm being foolish, but you're never cruel." She moves a hand to brush his hair off his forehead, looking from the tiny remnant of the bruise, and then searching his face, blowing out a breath, guilt softening the edges of her expression.
"And you're exhausted. Again. But what if I didn't want to let you go just yet?" She gives the couch — his current bed — a lingering glance, biting down on her bottom lip. Her words pick up speed, like she's afraid that if she slows it down, she'll stop talking and not be able to start again. She looks up at his eyes with her chin tucked down, a small, possibly unintentional emphasis of their slight height difference.
"What if I asked you to sleep with me tonight, in the bed, and I mean just sleep, tonight, because Light knows you need it, and you should know it will be probably uncomfortably warm, because I can't hold this shape when I sleep, I always have to shift eventually, and so I usually just start that way, because otherwise I can tear the sheets in the most uninteresting way ever documented, and I realize that might be a strange proposition in itself because you won't be holding this me, only the other, and you can tell me no, and I still won't run, and I won't not offer again, so you can…say no." Her voice is breathless by the end, when she forces it to stop, not quite managing to stem the sense of a nervous babble, unusual from her ordinary confidence. But, perhaps he understands better why even this offer might be more daunting to her than other bolder choices of her own actions independent of his choices.
Lathrik scans over her expression, and it’s clear from his own that he’s in serious thought.
“I will sleep in the same bed as you tonight,” he says at last, raising one hand to her cheek. “And I’d have it known that it’s because I want to. And tomorrow we’ll talk more about your heist.”
The smile curls up, relief obvious in her eyes at his choice. "Our heist. It's a group effort." She tilts her face a little more into his hand, but she stabs a finger at his shoulder, her expression dipping into a chastising imperiousness. "You still need to eat dinner. It's terrible, and it's cold, but you have to eat something. I already ate. You were late," she reminds him, with a pouting accusation. "I'll go get ready for bed, and you make sure you bring a mana potion for the morning." Fuss, fuss, fuss.
She's also either going to need help collecting her canes, or shift to gather them from where they've fallen.
“Aye, well, I’d ask that it be opt-in. It comes with a bit of risk to our positions with the guard, especially Ren’s.” Lathrik makes a questioning gesture towards the couch. “Would ye like to sit? I’ll catch our escaped wooden friend then snag dinner while ye get ready? Or d'ye prefer the chase, yourself?” Dogs chasing sticks. Huh. It was probably not intended as a joke, at least, not by Lathrik.
She might not even catch it (ha ha), as she blinks at him, her expression wobbling dangerously, and she slides along his side, one hand stroking a path down his arm in reluctance to let go fully, and folds into a stunned sit on the couch.
"No one's ever asked me that before, if I would rather get my aides myself, or if they can help me," she explains, looking up at him through her lashes. "They always assume, just grab them, like I'm always helpless to do it myself. And sometimes, yes, it'd be difficult to get them myself and I would rather the help, but sometimes I can get them fine on my own, just slower or less easily, but I don't even get the chance before someone does it for me. Thank you. For asking." She still has a hand on him, rubbing at his knuckles. "I'd appreciate it if you got them for me."
Lathrik nods and gets down on his knees. “I care for you, Natalyah,” he says, leaning over to reach under the coffee table for the one that rolled away. He lets her keep his hand, which makes it a bit of an awkward stretch, but he doesn’t seem to mind it. “And that means I care to know what you’d prefer. It’s not always what I think it’s going to be, I’ve learned.” The other one is mercifully closer, and as he straightens, he presents them both to her.
She finally does let go of his hand, to accept the canes, setting them down onto the floor. She pushes up to a stand and leans forward to land a peck of a kiss to his cheek, smiling wickedly at him like she has a secret. "I'll give you a hint then: what I really prefer most is that you keep trying anyway, even if you get it wrong sometimes, because I don't want you to stop trying to figure me out."
She leaves that in the air as she makes her way to the bedroom, and doesn't actually close the door behind her, already starting to hum as she begins to get undressed, while in full view from the living room, although she does have her back to him, but that might be out of necessity of the orientation of where she keeps her sleepwear (his shirt), and where her dresses go to hang up overnight for washing tomorrow.
Lathrik watches her for a moment, his lips upturned in a faint smile, then he rises and sets about retrieving his cold dinner, before settling down to eat it.
It's unclear how much of the slow undressing is intended with an awareness of a possible audience, and how much is the reality of working with limited balance and sometimes only one hand for the undressing. She stays well within view of the open door, however, as she unbuttons and then slides off her dress to rehang it up, then removes the brassiere beneath it, leaving nothing but smooth tanned skin of her back on display: two matching soft tiny rolls at her mid-back ordinarily smoothed by the brassiere and her clothing, gliding into the greater curves of her waist, the flare out into her hips, where a dip forms into them, an invitation of exactly where he might set his hands to hold her there.
The underwear, a pop of white cloth skimming the edges of the curves there, she leaves on, while she takes a cloth, dips it into a water basin kept on the table, and wipes down her neck, her arms, her torso in smooth strokes. She brushes her hair with a boars bristle brush of heavy silver, a noblewoman's brush, untangling the silken strands. Once this is done, she turns to the nightstand to light a single candle from the matches kept there, the curve of the side of her breast visible as she leans, before she straightens again, slips into Lathrik's shirt, and moves with the aid of her canes to the bed now tucked into the corner of the room, and out of view of the living room, to wait for him there.
Lathrik consumes his food with the speed of someone trying to get it over with, not really stopping to taste it, which is just as well, all things considered. He steals the occasional glance into the bedroom, but averts his gaze in guilt after mere seconds each time. She has left the door open, but maybe that wasn’t intentional. It’s possible he’s forgetting that he was ready to tear those same clothes off of her a short time ago.
With dinner finished, he sets his dish aside, (he’ll wash it in the morning,) and takes two mana potions from the basket on the coffee table, drinking one of them immediately. He sets the empty vial in the mana potion bin rather than throwing it as usual, probably to avoid startling Natalyah with the noise. The other he takes into the bedroom to set near the bed.
“Ye left the door open,” he says as he enters, scanning her expression.
She's already on the bed, laid out — he might note, in the center rather having yet picked a side — and she pushes up onto her forearms to lift only her head and upper back off the bed. She smiles at him, and there is no way to describe it even remotely within the vicinity of innocent; there are probably literal demons of the Burning Legion who put on at least a feigned innocence that is closer to it than her expression.
"And you're what, worried I've completely forgotten how to do so in some fugue state?" She arches a brow to emphasize it. The way she looks at him, dragging her eyes over his body, there is little doubt that she is mentally stripping him then and there. Respectfully. Honestly, not all that respectfully, more like hungrily. "Oh, no, how does one push a door closed. Maybe you should take your shirt off and demonstrate for me?" It's a cross between a flirt and a dare, and possibly more of a dare of the two.
Lathrik makes a sound of amusement and sits on the edge of the bed to remove his shoes. “If I take anything else off, we’ll be doing more than sleepin’.” Is that a flirt or a dare? He glances back at her with a smile.
She pushes up onto her hands, leaning close enough to him to almost touch, as she shakes her head, her hair moving gently around the collar of his shirt. "Not tonight. You're tired," she tells him, and reaches out to run a hand along the curve of his lower back against his spine. "I'm not the kind of woman you try to take to bed when you're already tired. I need so much of you." She traces a line upwards, pulling his shirt up just a little as she goes, a peek of skin. "I want everything you can give me, and to give you everything I have, until you can't take it anymore, until we both break from it." And now we've hit the cross section between flirt and threat.
He shivers at her touch and turns, sliding his arm around her so close that it brushes against her, his palm landing flat on the bed behind her. The smile is replaced with a hunger of his own as he leans closer, bringing his face near to hers. “You think I’ve not enough to give you?” he asks. “After how many times I’ve been denied?” His other hand reaches up to play with the ends of her hair.
She wraps her arm around his shoulder to pull herself even closer to him, and there's that dangerous glint in her eyes of that rising to a dare. "You think I've not enough in me to take so much of you that you can't leave this bed for days while I satiate myself on you? After how many times I've been denied?" The arched tone softens as she dips her head in a sensuous movement, lips brushing the edge of his beard at his neck.
"I don't want to be thinking about if you still have a bit of a concussion, or if you're already so tired that if I took all that I want that you might not be able to wake up tomorrow until I can do something about it. I just want to be thinking about you, and showing you how much I want you, how badly I crave you. I want you to bed me with all that you have when you're able to give it. Tonight's not the only night. I want you to hold me every night. You have me, Lathrik. I'm caught."
His hand slides to the side of her neck, a gentle hold, and he lets out a sigh of resignation as his forehead comes to rest on hers.
She makes a low moan as his hand holds at her neck, pressing closer to him as if for a moment she might ignore her own words and escalate anyway.
“Alright…” he murmurs. “Alright. But if your plan really is to have me sleep, you’re not…helping.”
Her laugh is an evil cackle that he can feel the vibrations of in his hand. "Really? Don't tell me you're surprised. When have I ever made anything easy for you?" She steals a kiss, hard and brief, before she scoots backwards, angling for the side of the bed against the wall. His shirt on her rises up significantly more, and it does not seem accidental.
She's over the covers, not under them, and so he gets a view of soft thighs and a peak at the apex between them, but only for a second: there's the woman, and then there's a change in the weight of the bed, as she takes her worgen form, moving enough that the shirt flows back down to cover her. She's taller — if not broader — than he is now, covered in the smooth silken fur, and a miraculously larger shirt, even if she's also now missing a finger on each hand.
He watches her scoot away, his lips twitching with amusement at her comment, and continues to watch her through the shift.
"There. I can be merciful, too. I did learn a few things from the Church," she says. The assumption being, of course, that he's less attracted to her like this.
Even in her worgen form, his eyes hold nothing but fondness for her. For a moment longer, he remains still, his eyes on hers, then, with a deep breath, (more than what’s needed to blow out the candle, which he does,) he slides under the covers.
“Night, ‘Talyah,” he says.
In the ensuing dark, he feels her move, until she's right up against him, curling up in an echo of the shape he saw at her outside camp, nuzzling her head over until she rests on his chest with a heavy warmth. The sigh that emerges from her is quiet, softly contented.
"I still think you should have your shirt off," she tells him, but the tartness is cut by the way she murmurs it, sleep already wrapping a finger around her and pulling. He's not the only one who's tired, even if she won't admit it. "Mmnight."
The Next Morning
Lathrik wakes at the correct time in the morning. It is not a fast awakening, nor is it a peaceful one. It starts with small shifting. His head moves. His legs seek another position. Then he tries to turn, but there’s something, a weight on his chest keeping him down. His head moves again, the muscles in his face tightening in some sort of distress. He mumbles something.
The movements become more frequent. His arms get involved, fighting to pull free of the covers. Eventually they succeed. Finally, in a culmination of movement and a gasp of air, Lathrik’s hand settles on a furry head, still resting on his chest. His eyes snap open.
Natalyah is less responsive than a rock, so deeply asleep that only the fact that she is definitely breathing gives any indication that she isn't literally dead to the world.
It takes him a moment, a few blinks, some deep breaths, to center himself again, but when he finally does, he gives Natalyah’s head a soft pat, before carefully sliding out from under her and into a sitting position. He stops, perched on the edge of the bed, to run a hand over his face, before sucking in another deep breath and rising, slipping from the room to start the coffee.
She sleeps through the start of the coffee, in the same place that Lathrik left her, her mouth open slightly and drooling a little onto the cover.
When she does finally wake up, it's with a snort, and a groggy movement of her head as if she thinks for a second that Lathrik has only just now moved away and she's slipped off. But no, the bed is cold, and the smell of coffee is everywhere, which means Lathrik has been up for a while. She drags herself to where her canes rest between the bed and the nightstand, and holds them in one hand as she lopes lazily into the other room, looking for coffee and Lathrik — in that order.
Her coffee is in a mug on the counter with a plate over it; Lathrik appears to have already cleaned the pot. It’s unclear how long ago he made it. Lathrik himself is seated on the couch in an impassive slump, holding his own mug. It’s empty.
He has one foot on the coffee table, one on the floor, and wherever his mind is, it’s not here. He raises the empty mug to his lips to drink, awarded for his efforts with nothing. A confused blink follows, but it isn’t enough to stir him to action and he simply lowers the mug to his lap again and continues to stare at… something that’s probably not there.
The softness of her expression vanishes into a tight flinch, as if stung at the sight of him there, clearly not relaxed or pleased or happy or well rested. It's difficult to see the same nuances of expression in the worgen form face, but a shame filled hurt pulls up her shoulders, makes her jaw tremble as her head lowers, a very high pitched whine emerging quietly from her.
She slinks over to where her coffee is, as if there is any way to disguise a six and a half foot black worgen moving through the small house, the vulnerable arched curve of her back to Lathrik, as she takes off the plate from the coffee mug, drinking it as is, as quickly as Lathrik did when Reniya asked if he even stopped to appreciate any of the flavor. It's not about enjoying it. If anything, it's like she wants it to be awful, a punishment for something.
Her movement, if not the whine itself gets Lathrik’s attention and he pulls his foot from the coffee table, sitting up straighter and setting down the mug. His eyes light up when he sees her, and his expression begins to look less dire. “’Talyah. Good morning,” he says, then looks a bit closer. “Are you… Is somethin’ wrong? Did I… Light, is it cold? I’m sorry, I… how long has it been?”
Lathrik checks the window. Still morning…somehow.
The coffee definitely isn't hot at least, so she doesn't burn her tongue. Although, if you're going to burn your mouth, having a paladin who can heal you just a few steps away is probably the best situation to do it in.
She takes several deep panting breaths, the coffee mug on the counter, and forces the shift, the fur disappearing and her shrinking with so much effort that it's more visible, not the effortless blink-and-you'll-miss-it she's usually capable of. She shakes her head. "How could I possibly tell you that?" She asks him archly, hurt sharpening her voice. "I don't know how long you've been up." She almost leaves it there, but she can't. She whirls around to face him, her mouth pulled down until the curls of her lips aren't visible, on the verge of tears already filling her eyes enough that they likely blur her vision. "Was it really that terrible? Did you even sleep at all?"
Lathrik gets to his feet, wearing a confused frown as he closes the distance between them. “Oi. What’s this about? Nothing was bad. Should I have… stayed with ye longer? I’m used to rising early.”
She keeps her hand braced on the counter, her canes resting against it next to her. "No need to force yourself," she bites out, and it's like the words do more damage to her than they could do to him to say out loud, and she flinches back from them. "If you were going to be miserable and tired, you should have left as soon as I fell asleep and just let me think you were still there." There's no anger directed at him, only a deep rising shame in her. "I'm sorry. You don't have to do it again."
“Miserable and… ‘Talyah, I am neither of those things, I’m not sure where this is coming from?” He steps closer, his arms spread in offer of a hug. His gaze on her is intent and concerned.
Natalyah looks at him like he's the confusing one, a wariness in her eyes, shoulders held tensely. It might be revealing, however, at secret weaknesses he has over her, because she does not last against the offer of a hug, a storm clearing in a high wind, as she pushes off the counter and into his arms like she's powerless to resist.
Lathrik sighs with relief as she accepts his hug, enfolding her in a soothing closeness. He did NOT know where to go from here if she rejected him.
"I saw you sitting there," she accuses him, the bite of the words lessened by the fact that she says them into his neck, pressing her body against his eagerly, as if she wants the contact more than she wanted the coffee. "Slumped over exhausted, staring at nothing like you regretted everything about last night, or like you'd just listened to three hours of Mr. Brontel's egregious lectures on how some butterflies can be used to defend against kobold population growth, which is essentially the same emotion." Some of that impression might be her own coloring of the impression, rather than reality. To be fair, she's only just had any coffee.
“Has it occurred to you that I might just look that way when I’m thinkin’?” he asks.
She picks at his shirt over his shoulder. There's a penitent softening to the tension, and she kisses his pulse, maybe in something of an apology. "No, it didn't. You never look like that around me. Is this your way of confessing that I make you not think? Because I might have to add that onto the list of romantic things, and I want to make sure I can beat out the foot kisser off the top five." He can feel the start of a smile, but she sighs, pulling back to look at his face. The hurt and shame have been banished, replaced by apologetic concern, the start of worry. "What were you thinking about to look like that?"
“Having you around has replaced most of my thoughts with better ones,” Lathrik admits. “And I’ve found less time for the deeper thoughts. The ones that… aren’t particularly pleasant. It was just… there’s been a dream I keep having. The circumstances of it change, but always the same result.” He shakes his head. “Just a dream, though, nothing more.”
The smile that she gives him as he admits she's scared off some of the bad thoughts likely confirms that the Foot Kissing has been officially booted (ha ha) off the top 5 romantic things someone has said to her.
But the smile fades out as he continues, back into the look of concern mixed with indignation, as she presses herself harder into him, a hand sliding up the back of his neck into his hair, fingers curling, like she wants to reach into his brain and fight off the unpleasant dreams physically.
"What happens in the dream? The end result?" She demands.
Lathrik’s posture loosens, his shoulders shrugging almost as if in a trained response, a certain lazy smile taking over. “Ren dies,” he says casually, as if he doesn’t care, and the event is something one might observe on an evening walk. “Imagine he’d tease me if I said anything. Somethin’ about him appearin’ in my dreams.”
"'Man of your dreams,'" she says. "It's low hanging fruit, but he'd take it." But the smile isn't there, only that concern, her hand stroking the back of his neck. "You've been friends for so long. Does he know about the curse?"
Lathrik shakes his head. “Nah. Ren’s not the sort to pry too hard into another man’s problems, and I’ve kept it to myself. He didn’t even know about the mana potions until recently. I’ll admit, I haven’t looked too hard into his situation either. Kind of an understandin’ we have.” He idly rubs her back.
"The kind of understanding where you dream repeatedly of him dying, so much so that it lingers horribly when you wake, and likely where you feel like you fail to protect him, watch him suffer and die while you live on," she says, poking his shoulder with a hard finger, only to rub the same place gently as if to soothe the pain she herself just inflicted.
“D’you have a point other than the one you’re doin’ into my shoulder?” Lathrik asks, mild amusement in his eyes.
"If it hurts, you could ask me to heal it," she says archly. How she makes the offer sound like a threat and also strangely like a dare is a phenomenon to be studied by experts in tone and tempestuous ladies. "And as a matter of fact," she continues without a real pause, "I do have a point. The point is that you should change your understanding to actually understanding each other, and talk to him seriously about what is going on. Especially if you're this worried about him that he's haunting your dreams when you could be spending them thinking of what you'll do with me when you're not tired."
“I’m not worried about him,” Lathrik insists. “Or… I wasn’t, until the dreams started. But what’s telling him going to do? He can’t fix it. Any of it.”
"How do you know? He's not useless. As a matter of fact, he was the one who noticed that you haven't been waking up, and he told me, because he might not be able to fix it, and he didn't know if I could, but what good would come of me finding out the hard way? Besides, what if there is something odd happening with him, and he hasn't told you, because he thinks you don't want to know, or that you have too much else to worry about than caring about him." She pushes again at his shoulder, but he's sturdier than she is — the movement only moves her back a little more precariously on her own balance. "And I know that isn't true. I also know that we're going to need to think of something else for getting something into Count Amerith's manor. If something did happen to him, you'd blame yourself, and I forbid it."
“I’ll think about it,” Lathrik says. That is not a promise to tell Ren anything, but okay. “I can infiltrate the Count’s manor myself. I may not be quite as skilled as Ren, but it is my risk to assume. Before you ask, Ren can pretend to be me to complete that part of the cycle. There is a potion that will allow him to assume my appearance.”
Natalyah shakes her head, looking at him incredulously. "I don't like either of those on so many levels. Also, that is horrifying. I would rather force myself to look through someone's eyes than see him try to pretend to be you. I don't know what would be worse, honestly, if he did it badly or if he did it well." She looks him over, and shudders. "That is nightmare fuel."
“It’d be fine if you didn’t see him, then?” Lathrik asks with a small smile. “You’d be looking through the rat in my pocket anyway. Hana and Elle can take care of the rest. Tabiana can watch you wherever you set down. I don’t see anything wrong with that plan.”
"Except the part where if you're caught, there is no way you could play it off the way someone else could, that you'd received an anonymous call warning of, I don't know, another fire or whatever. Just a guard on his rotation shift, possibly happens to know you, but that isn't that strange. He would pay special attention to the fact that it was you, and even if he considered believing you then, when Ilanya returned to report on Ren-You at the bar, he would know everything was a set up, and we would have his attention in the worst possible way. Whatever ally he might have made would be completely destroyed, and whatever he might have planned to do before or what interest he had altered for the worse," she says, and there's genuine fear in her expression, a panting starting that he recognizes that means she's losing her grip on her human form.
Lathrik shifts his hold on her to one arm, his other hand tucking gently under her chin. “I won’t be caught.” There is a calm intensity in his eyes as he gazes at her. He is confident.
It's definitely doing something for her. Not convincing, but something, and at least one of those is calming. The other not so much. Her gaze drops to his lips and hold there for a long moment before she looks back to his eyes, her pupils wider. "What if Ren is? Ilanya's been watching you for long enough to know you. If she's better than Ren's fake out, what she tells the Count will be that someone is pretending to be you. If she realizes it's Ren, it could put him in danger of being Interesting to Count Amerith." She licks her lips, a reflex. She's focused on the heist. The heist. She's only just barely rubbing her face against Lathrik's hand, it's fine.
"The easiest solution would be if I…" A breath. "I had my eyes on you or Hana, and then jumped to Ilanya. If I can just hold it long enough to jump to the lion if it's there, then that's all we would need." She's tense, and she shudders again, but the sucker punch of even thinking about it has dulled from its sharpest pain, maybe from speaking about it, maybe from Lathrik holding her.
“I trust Ren to play the part,” Lathrik says, his thumb stroking her cheek. “Truthfully, there is something else I want to investigate while I’m there. Many somethings. If all goes well, I’ll be able to provide a distraction for the Count to focus on instead. It’s a rare opportunity to explore his home. If it puts you at ease at all, you can have your eyes on me. That way you will see what is happening, without relying on the whim of an animal. But only if it wouldn’t hurt you to do so.”
There's a storm gathering on her face. "That's why you want it to be you. Not just because of the risk, but because you want to investigate the place yourself," she says and there's a blended combination of anger and fear building. "What will hurt me is if anything happens to you, Lathrik. If I was there with you, and I saw — "
She can't even finish the sentence, going so ashen and swaying with a jolt of dizziness, that he might wonder if she'll swoon like a fine lady, as fear skyrockets — her eyes go pure gold. Not with the Light, but something lupine, and it's there long enough that for a moment he might have a strange impression of something else, something not really her, before she closes her eyes, sweat on her brow and breathing heavily. When she opens her eyes, it's only Natalyah, pleading with him in her expression if not her words, clutching onto him like he's about to leave right then and there into danger.
Lathrik wraps his arms more fully around her and leans towards her ear, his voice a soft murmur. “I’m an informant for SI:7.” It’s probably the first time he’s ever said those words aloud. “I have a deal with them. They changed the records of my background to obscure my past, and in exchange, I solve problems for the Kingdom and keep watch for spies. From the Horde, or whatever other organization threatens us. The Count has remained out of reach for so long. I suspect he even met personally with a Scourge death knight who destroyed the reputation of a friend of mine, but all investigation into that ended abruptly, and possibly by his own hand. I won’t be caught, Natalyah… and if you’re with me, you’ll see.”
Natalyah buries her face against his neck, breathing in deeply, and she's pressed so close that he can feel the butterfly wing movements of her lashes against his skin as she blinks, having a moment of processing this information.
The moment goes on, a silence stretching.
Then she sighs heavily, warm breath against him, something relenting or deciding. First she presses a fierce kiss to his pulse, then another to his jawline, then finally to his lips like she might try to take back the words he's spoken out loud and hide them inside her instead, where they won't be heard by anyone else who might use them to hurt Lathrik.
He doesn’t say anything more on the subject; if he can help it, he will never mention it again. Instead he accepts her kisses, delivering back his own, firm and reassuring. “I’ll see the others gathered for dinner?” he asks, gently rubbing her shoulders.
She nods, looking at him with worry strong enough to make it seem close to pain. "Peril should be here, too. Not as your brother," she says quickly, "but as my friend. We're both from the publishing world. He's been a fan of mine for long enough, and me desperate for money badly enough that it's an easy connection to justify. As a matter of fact, Hana was the one who suggested he might know something about Ilanya, and that's all it has to be. He deserves to be a part of it, as long as you agree. Also, he definitely has a massive crush on Ilanya and if she's what and who I think she might be, it's best he hears about it directly. I don't want him to get hurt by her."
Lathrik rolls his eyes up to the ceiling. “Light, that man. Having a crush on her of all the…” He sighs. “Her background is altered as well. Suspect our Count has a pet in the Organization. It’s not her, for the record, which makes it more infuriating. Lady Ravendusk herself never truly existed, which means she’s been his all along. Fine. Have Peril come. But tell him I will send that imp of his back to the Nether if I see it.”
"You'd have to beat me to it if it shows up. It has the creepiest laugh," she tells him. This is likely not new information to him. "Although your brother also has excellent aim with what I swear to the Light smells like a bag of curry powder."
“He’s tried to explain it to me before, why the thing hates curry, but I was too angry to listen,” Lathrik says, shaking his head. “All I know is, he has difficulty dismissing it.”
Natalyah smiles impishly, but she's not actually an imp. "I'll ask him, then. I like him." Probably not the same way she likes Lathrik though. She's still holding onto him, dressed in nothing but his shirt, and the early morning is stretching its fingers towards mid-morning, and when Lathrik's usual shift starts. She darts a kiss to his nose, and pouts at him in the next second. "If you don't start getting ready for work, Ren and Elle will be here and possibly knock down the door again. And no one gets to see me dressed like this but you." She shifts to turn her torso, reaching a hand back for the counter to balance at while she gets her canes. "If you find a day off soon, then you can see me dressed in less."
Lathrik takes a long, appreciating look at her outfit, probably for the first time this morning, and reluctantly sets her free, pulling away to prepare for his shift. “Find one? Might have to make one,” he says.
Natalyah's unfettered wicked cackle fills the house, the look in her eyes all promise. Well, maybe a little bit of a dare. She can't help herself.