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arianakristine · 7 years

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Title: Between the Shadow and the Soul, Chapter 7 Note: Another that is unprompted, and more guided by the picspam for later today. Blame Jamie for this piece. Bonus points to those that catch what song was on my mind when writing this (hint: Kristy is not subtle).

She wakes to the feel of his hands across her back, nails lightly raking against her skin. She blinks her eyes open, finding dark blue set on her face. He notices immediately that she has risen even though his eyes are on her lips, and he loosens his hold.

She had snuck him into her rooms the night before, the boldest she’s ever been in the palace. If it hadn’t been for the celebration and the hard drinking the servants were privy to, she wouldn’t have risked it.

At least … she thinks she wouldn’t have. The past week, she has become more and more reckless with him. She has snuck into his room, slipping past the guards and servants near his quarters to spend long nights. She has stretched their time to its limits, just barely in her own bed before her lady’s maid came to wake her. She has even dared to kiss him in the library one day, just a few stacks of books between them and Alexandra, another royal sure to judge had they been discovered.

Perhaps she is tired of the secrecy. Perhaps she wants them to be caught, for the charade to end.

She is still scared, though, and it is compounded by the fear she catches in him. She does not want to rush him, or else she may have gained the confidence this past week. But she will test the boundaries of his fear, just a little.

Now, she is all the more grateful that she had a whole night with him breathing beside her, for her to use these moments to stitch together a dream of a future they might never get.

She slips down onto her side of the bed but doesn’t let him get far. She traps him close again with an arm around his waist and a kiss pressed onto his shoulder. He smiles, a soft lift of his lips before his gaze settles.

“What?” she asks, then breathes deeply in an attempt to clear the drowsiness from her voice.

Lines form across his forehead, but then he shakes his head. “It’s morning.”

His accent is deeper, softly vibrating against her chest. She keeps it there a moment before she acknowledges the statement. “Constance won’t be in to wake me for another hour,” she attempts.

Her stall doesn’t work, just as she knew it wouldn’t. He extracts himself from the tangle of her body, and then crosses to her window. The pale light of the pre-dawn softens him, making him look ethereal. His face is the barest she’s ever seen and she thinks, for once, he appears younger than she. “It is today,” he reminds gently.

She pulls the duvet around her body, shivering at the sudden chill. “I know,” she says with a frown, even if she had indeed forgotten for a moment. His hair is cut and his beard shaved for a reason; he will have no time for it while in the woods fighting rebels.

She’s a little dizzy as she rises to join him, sleep still cloying her thoughts. She grabs the nightgown from her vanity and drapes it over herself. She walks over to him, but doesn’t step inside his space. “How long?” she finally asks.

His lashes flutter, and he can’t yet turn to her. “They will wait for the castle to rise. There is to be a formal goodbye and a speech from the King to the entire court before the garrison leaves.”

“And you as their captain will need to arrive first,” she finishes for him. A formal goodbye to the battalion is most uncommon; had she not gotten the information from him she would have known the seriousness of his mission by this alone.

“Yes,” he says to her, simple and abrupt.

She ducks her head and twists her hands together. Why does it feel like he is already gone?

“I love you.”

Her head snaps up. He so rarely says the words, and she rarely needs them. She can’t say she is unaffected by those syllables, and she takes a moment to memorize the way they are said before she responds. “You have my whole heart, Graham. And you have your promise to uphold.”

He shudders and crosses to her. He lifts her chin with gentle fingers. “You are my whole heart, Emma,” he asserts before capturing her lips with his own.

She presses her lips together so they do not quiver once they are separated. “Swear it again,” she whispers.

He gives a smile, cupping her face. “I will make it back to you.”

Even though she had protested the promise before, she allows it now. She feels the want in his words, and knows he will not give up. “Good,” she says, and kisses him again.

“If there’s a reason that I’m by your side …,” he trails off and presses his forehead to hers, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

She swallows. This is probably the closest he will come to believing they are meant. It is certainly the closest he would dare speak of; he doesn’t like to get her hopes up. She is careful not to let his words flicker into her expression, even though her heart is filled.

They are meant. She knows it.

Instead, she tracks her hands over his skin, feeling for the scars on his body. She has long since memorized them all, but she takes a moment to find them once more before he leaves to add to them. She has no doubt there will indeed be more when he returns. This time is so much longer, so much more dangerous, and he will be taking on an even greater role.

He lets her take the time, and after a long moment his own hands curl down her back. His touch is feather-light as it eases her nightgown off. His callouses cause her every nerve to ignite as he makes his own exploration. It feels as though he has mapped her body in a way even she can’t; he can and has used his knowledge to weaken her knees and send her spiraling. Today, in the bare light of morning, he only traces the familiar paths, rememorizing her.

As she touches him back, she suddenly realizes how desperately they are in making subconscious memories with their fingertips in order to fill the nights alone.

Finally, his thumb rolls over the bruise he’d made on the inside of her thigh, and it resonates in past sensation. She can feel the heat and his teeth and the possessiveness, and wants more.

“This’ll be gone when I return,” he muses. He drops to his knees and presses a chaste kiss to it.

Months, she is reminded. No mark he could make in this moment will last as long as his absence. “You will need to make more,” she says. She runs a hand through his hair, testing him. She knows they have no time to lay together again.

He sighs and drops her leg back into place. He looks up, his eyes full of promise. “When I return.”

She feels the butterflies in her belly strengthen her smile. “When you return,” she echoes.

He grabs his things from the floor. When he rises to dress, he scatters his lips across her shoulders. “You won’t forget?”

Her heart almost breaks at the vulnerability in his voice. She grabs his jaw in her hand and kisses him roughly. “You think I would forget my true love?” she demands.

Heat rises in his cheeks and he looks away.

She knows her huntsman. She knows he doesn’t believe himself deserving of what they have. Instead, she appeals to the side he believes. “I won’t forget your promise.”

His answering smile is shy. “You will hold me to it, then?”

“My one command as your princess,” she teases, even as the bolt of worry wavers her voice.

He raises an eyebrow. “One?”

�� She leans her forehead against his chest. “Fine. The one I care most about, then.”

He wraps her in an embrace and kisses the crown on her head. “I do truly love you,” he murmurs.

“I know you do,” she answers. “And one day you will believe that I could never love another as I do you.”

There are footsteps in the hall, and they both turn to her door. It is not time yet, and it is just the beginning of the maids attending to their tasks, but it reminds them of the time. “I need to go.”

She nods, and leans up to press her mouth to his once more. “Remember what you are coming home to. That I will need my home.”

He entwines their fingers and nods. He leans down one final time, kissing her thoroughly. He says nothing more as he escapes behind the bookcase, down the narrow passage that will lead him away. She sighs and finds her nightgown, pulling it over her body.

When Constance arrives, she is at her vanity, having smoothed the locks of her hair free from its tangles. “You are up early, Your Highness,” she remarks before taking the brush from her hands. “You did not wish to sleep in after the festivities?”

She shakes her head, and watches her lady’s maid from the polished mirror. There is nothing in her that gives anything away, but she still remains suspicious any time someone notices her deviating from her routine. “I was wakeful.”

Constance nods, and only hums as she begins her styling.

Emma can’t quite tell if what she feels is purely relief, or something else.

Three other maids attend to her to get her ready for the address. She tries not to sway in anticipation, tries to focus on rising and sinking into the clothing. She feels awfully lightheaded as they prepare her in layers of cloth and makeup.

She exits her room fully dressed for the event in a stiff, heavy gown. The sleeves swallow her, giving her appearance one of more stature to oppose the assembly of the military faction. The crown she wears is intricate and tall, not the lighter tiaras meant for everyday.

When she enters the throne room, her parents are seated. The court is hushed. Her mother, she finds, is dressed similarly. Her father is in golds and a lengthy cape, his sword apparent on his belt. To the side on an elaborate couch are the members of the visiting family: Thomas, Ella, Alexandra, Gerald, and even little Eliza are in the colors of their kingdom but with equal edges to their looks. All eight are all meant to look imposing, and endlessly regal.

Which is why, perhaps, she feels just the opposite when she finds his eye across the room.

He is dressed in riding armor, leathers intricate and thick with no metal to be found save for his weaponry. He is sleek and powerful in the attire. His cape is unlike the others’ that fill his company; teal is only on the inside and midnight black out. He is their leader, but he is so separate from them at the same time. He looks mysterious as ever, cobalt gaze penetrating over the heads of everyone else.

The bruise on her thigh burns.

Now that they are gathered, her father allows them to sit. The throne feels cumbersome, and she straightens tall so that no one may see her falter. She looks out over the court before lingering back to the battalion.

The king begins his speech, face dazzling with pride and determination. He gestures to King Thomas, praising him on finding the rebel faction before it could reach further into the lands out-skirting their kingdoms. Then, he starts in with a speech for the battalion.

It is rousing, she is sure, but she cannot hear one bit of it when she is trying to stamp the blush from rising in her cheeks whenever she finds him in the sea of people.

Suddenly, there is applause and she struggles to keep up with it. She turns to smile up at her father. He looks pleased, and reaches to squeeze her mother’s hand before he turns to his subjects again. They all bow to them, and her heart begins to quiver in anticipation.

She rises to meet her parents as they all approach the top of the steps. She watches raptly as the crowd parts for their commander to come forward.

Her mother is the first to reach forward, allowing him to take her hand. He bows rigidly, and there is a crinkle that forms between her mother’s eyes before it abruptly evens. “Sir Knight, we wish your group luck and safe passage.”

Her father is next, regally tall as he nods to him. “We admire the bravery and risk your battalion is taking for this kingdom. It will not go unforgotten.”

Her last. She hopes her voice does not shake as she offers her hand. “May the gods grant your safe return.” It is the ceremonial statement, but she and he both know full well that she is using the singular ‘you’ in this case.

His bow is more formal than any she’s ever seen him use, as for once his eyes are not on hers throughout his genuflection. But perhaps it is because the action hides how his lips linger too close, how his thumb rolls across her pulse. It feels a ghost of a kiss, hidden and yet so apparent.

It sends shivers down her spine.

It breaks her heart, this secretive goodbye in the shadow of the glowing if hasty one in her rooms. She doesn’t want to release him, doesn’t want to see him leave. She wants to scream and cry, to damn the consequences and pull him close. She feels the bitterness of their absence before he has even made a step.

Hearts, he’d said. The rebels are after hearts. It’s too much and it’s too long, and she can’t ensure his safety with him so far.

But he drops her hand at the appropriate time, stepping back to the rest.

“These men take great risk in defending our kingdom from those loyal to the Usurper,” her father says, addressing the court. “We are fortunate to have them on our side. Thank you all for coming to lend your support.”

Applause sounds once more, and she feels a wave of nausea. The thought of the Usurper makes her ill now. Before him, tales of the witch had simply been a scary story; now her dark fingerprint is felt over her entire life, over his. She looks to find his head ducked down, and she desperately wants to protect him.

“Emma.” She feels a hand between her shoulder blades and looks up to her mother’s face. “You may go now. Your father is only to discuss strategy next.”

Bitterness rises within her; had she more strength at the moment, had she not the sense that she may fall to tears through another stimulus, she may have fought the dismissal. Instead, she only nods.

She feels eyes on her throughout her entire exit.

She can’t look back. Not now, not in front of everyone.

Once she reaches her rooms, Constance is not there. A couple of her other maids linger by her door, but they are more easily dismissed after asking them to loosen her corset. After a moment’s thought, she asks for a bath to be drawn as well. She is more likely to have time alone increased when she is left to bathe.

She sheds the heavy fabric and leaves its pile by the door as the room is prepared. She cross in to her bedroom in only her shift. It feels empty and sterile without him now; the servants had cleaned, and the sheets are changed. She wouldn’t even have the chance to smell him on her bedding.

She sits in the window box, finding the indentations in the dew he had made on the glass that morning. She traces the marks absently before turning her gaze to the courtyard.

The evergreens dot the path out of the castle and the night’s snows are being shoveled away by a team of men, leaving a dirty path of wet leaves in their midst. As she watches, the garrison begin to ride out into the distance. Dozens head for the forest, clusters of teal blurring together. Finally, a lone white horse emerges in her sight, a man in a dark cape. It is too far to make out his expression, but she sees as he turns to face her window.

Her hands glow, magic heavy in them. She wants to wield it, wants to cover him in it so that no one may touch him. But she knows the pale yellow will fade and disperse, just as it always does. She watches with a heavy heart as a rainbow of color floats from her palms, fogging and disappearing into the air.

It disappears in the same time as he does. Her heart feels heavy as the woods suck him in, the ones she has come to love so much. A wish is breathed into the mist, for his safety and protection.

She is not sure she’d feel any better had their goodbyes been able to be openly expressed.

She wanders into the washroom with a furrowed brow and her eyes solemn. As she slips into the tub, warm fragrant water surrounding her, she lets the melancholy settle. She leans against the porcelain, and instantly she is lost in thought. A hand slips under her shift until her fingers rest on the bloom. She circles it, wondering at the mark. She has left her own over his skin many times over, and took care to leave a few for him to have on his leave.

She longs for the day where she can wear his freely.

Maybe in this time, she will gain her courage. Maybe, in this time, he will gain his.

Perhaps.

Alas, she is willing to wait for it.

#gremma #gremma ff #graham humbert #emma swan #gremma appreciation #between the shadow and the soul

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