RP:Fate's Fickle Folly

Summary: Alvina leaves the Fort to check on Lionel, just after the battle with Macon at the bridge in Larket. Word spread quickly through the fort that Hildegarde had stripped him of rank for his rash decisions. Briar's funeral is still ahead of them. The former Knight-Commander receives Alvina in a nearly empty house. After she treats his wounds, he invites her to stay for dinner and foolishly makes a hefty confession. Alvina gives him the gift she'd brought to him, and rushes out after a breath of a kiss is shared, vowing to never see or speak to Lionel again. She can not risk her family for impulses nor does she care to fall for a man she knows nothing about.

Síocháin

Day passes into night and Lionel has not left his estate today but for a ten-minute sojourn to see to his animals. Pristine and fresh-fallen snow crunches beneath his casual leather shoes. It’s quiet out here on the furthest reaches of Frostmaw’s territorial border. It’s serene. Yet Lionel does not feel serene. He fixes oats for horses and goats, tends to sheep and llamas -- essentially, he’s doing what the dwarves have always done instead. But Tratt and Delenn are back in town again on errand, Sheridan and Jadzia are halfway to Kelay for some meeting they may or may not have detailed, and only Sundance is here on guard duty. Five dwarves in all, only one of them on premises. Sundance had offered to handle this. Lionel refused. Lionel needs to feel the air, even for these ten short minutes. Then he’s back inside. The fireplace is warm, but it does not warm him. Seated here with a book in one hand and a mug of hot cider in the other, Lionel mourns.

Some time has past since Alvina has been up and about, since last Lionel and the bard had seen each other. It felt like a different time, a different life...but she’d heard the news at the Fort. In passing, or maybe Hudson had told her. About Lionel. About Briar. About the War. She trekked a short way on her own. Some of the healers have been begging to watch the babies, now with normal complexions and plenty of screaming. The bard would swear she can hear it, even now. She’d been told by a member of the guard that Lionel lived out this way, on the edge of civilization. It’s a bit surprising to find his home more of a...mansion of sorts. The thought surfaced, as she knocked snow off her boots at the front door, that she shouldn’t have come alone. Should have rented a horse, should have checked with Lionel to see if he wanted to see her. She might be the last person he wants to see after their prior conversation. However her breath catches in her throat, it’s too late now. She’ll just have to be brave. Time stands still. She knocks.

Lionel does not answer the door. In fact, he hardly hears it. Other visitors would be greeted by Tratt; the older dwarf has plenty of platitudes for every guest. He would be chipper and bow and smile and boast of Catal. For now, there is only Sundance. A lumbering mountain of a man, this dwarf had been present during the rescue of mages from the late, nefarious dragon Raiez. His arms are thick and his gaze is ever-longful. A metallic clank is overheard and then the door rises up from the bottom, its pulley system activated to permit entry. There stands Sundance, easing the tension on the crank, surprised. “My lady,” he greets, his voice rich with bass tones. “I’m Sundance -- a fellow in Master Lionel’s employ. Forgive, but…” He seems embarrassed, really. “We had not thought there’d be visitors today. Surely, Old Tratt would have remained behind. He’s at market. I… don’t quite know my formalities. Why don’t you come inside and I’ll fetch Lionel for you.” He nods, as if to himself. It is patently obvious that Sundance is socially awkward. With a thunder clap for a footstep, the titan begins down the hall, beckoning Alvina to join. She will find a pleasantly warm environment. Candles line either side of the oaken walls every few meters. Paintings -- not just Catalian, but Lithrydelian, too -- are held up in austerity. Books are scattered about. The kitchen is somewhat sparse but very cozy. With his back to her, and in the expansive first room Alvina will see, Lionel sits like a statue. Sundance clears his throat. Lionel waves him off and takes another sip. Sundance’s throat clears all over again. Lionel blinks, turns, and very nearly drops his ale. In a haste to stand, he fails to hide his gladness. His black silk dress shirt is half-unbuttoned and a wound still heals beneath it. “You came all this way? H, hello.” It’s all he thinks to say.

Alvina is surprised to see this man, clad in armor, pulling up the door? This really was a castle of a place. “Oh no no, forgive me I did not send word that I would be...calling? So really it is truly my blunder to begin with.” She laughs nervously, brushing off the last bit of snow before she transitions into the house. When Sundance offers to get Lionel, she tries to stop him with a hasty, “Oh, no no! That’s okay, I can come back if this is a bad time and everyone is gone and…” But the dwarf is already walking the path to the former Knight-Commander and she is obligated to trail behind like a lost puppy in the woods. The paintings, lit by the gentle glow of the candles, feel like stories waiting to be told. Had they been on better footing, Alvina might have asked this Sundance character more about the house, the painting, the books or the other odd artifacts she could note from this side of the room. The dwarf comes to a solid stop and the bard rushes to stop too, lest they clash. The mood in the room is heavy, palpable and dreary. The curtains are not open, no gentle sunlight filters in. Just the romantic glow candlelight, cast over a drowning fixture. Too proud to finally give up the ghost and die. That’s just her impression, before he’s juggling his ale and rushing to stand before her. It makes her too nervous, she looks away almost immediately before their eyes can even gaze upon each other for a tick of time. “H-hello.” She echoes, crossing her arms in front of her, fiddling with her fingers openly. “I hope you don’t mind that I came by I just…” The light from the nearest candle shines in her hair, makes it appear more like a flame. Those emerald eyes flicker back to the Knight and see the wounds, now visible. How are they healing? She desperately wants to know. Swiftly, the punctuated click of her white boots brings her a breath away from Lionel, her fleshed hand rises to graze his wounds. The skin is still swollen and pink, scabbed and...burned? Why did she march over and do this? Was she concerned? “These need more healing,” She said in an even tone that does not disclose the erratic beating of her heart. Alvina is not bold, only concerned. Her fingers hover over the mess of marks she can see without unbuttoning his shirt further. That, was just unthinkable. She had some honor. “Sit down.” She said, forgetting all about Sundance in the process of instructing Lionel like she was his commanding officer. He didn’t look like he’d put up much of a fight, this man. He looked hollowed out, and dry. Her hands wrapped around his shoulders and guide him back into the chair, not taking no for an answer. Threads of her crimson hair fall free from their ribbons and trail his shoulder. She is in no way his superior officer but she was a fearless mother with little sleep or patience. That was only a few days ago, who knows what kind of monster she’ll be in a year’s time of no sleep and screaming infants (tally; 3, Hudson sometimes counts). “Take this off, I need to know what I’m dealing with.”

Lionel does not mind that Alvina came. That much is certain; his azure eyes seem to track her, softly, as she cuts the distance between them down to a beat. It’s only once she’s standing right there, this close, that he swallows hard and his eyes drift nervously elsewhere. Lionel’s senses are, for better or for worse, keen like the warrior he is. Alvina’s heart is fluttering and he is not so drunk that he cannot detect it. He bites his lip as she speaks, then he’s sitting without really considering the action. She told him to sit and that is what he has done. She’s touching him, though. Across the way, Sundance’s jaw is slack. The dwarf has not thought to ever see his fallen prince like this. A woman has visited the estate once in the past -- recently, in fact, but Lionel sure didn’t seem to be bowing to her will or averting gaze so utterly. Sundance rubs his beard, confused, and thinks four golden words: ‘What Would Tratt Do?’ Surely, Tratt would offer beverage. Lionel already has one, though, and Sundance simply does not wish to intrude. He walks toward the kitchen, pauses, and ponders. It’s right around the time that Sundance is facing a difficult decision that Alvina’s hair is falling over Lionel and he’s being told to remove his shirt. Sundance’s eyes widen comically and he pours -himself- a drink instead. What would Jadzia gossip about over -this?- What about that Thane, Josleen? Sundance has heard-tell rumor that Josleen knows -all.- Sundance is petrified of omniscience and downs the contents of his glass in a single brave gulp. Only then does poor Sundance realize his green liquid was absinthe. Oh, the Ballad of Sundance will one day be sang, and it will be sung to the lyrics that poor Sundance is impulsive. The big man leans his back against a cabinet and slumps, slowly, down, down, down, until he’s snoring. It’s just as well, because Lionel has been panicking over the estimated odds that Alvina would see his backside if the shirt is removed. He doesn’t want her worrying so. He doesn’t want to see her hurting for him. “S, sounds like he’s out cold. Don’t worry, he does that. Probably forgot it was absinthe again…” Lionel tries to sound jovial but just comes across as nervous. Pivoting himself so that his chest is all she’ll see, he finishes unbuttoning and his hand shakes as he places the shirt to the side. The wound is healing, but Alvina isn’t wrong; it’s slow-going, and swollen. “I can get you something,” he adds, weirdly. “You should sit down. It’s a long walk. What are you doing walking so far just after giving birth? You, ah, I could get you water or tea. Usually Tratt and Delenn do that stuff…” He’s shirtless and ranting.

Alvina is now feeling all the braveness snuffed out of her. Lionel was relenting to her demands. A man like him? To a girl like her? Try, if you will, to focus on the wounds and think about this with emotionless precision. She waves her hand, afraid to let him get up or go make her anything. If he walks away, the spell of her confidence will break and he could easily convince her he’s fine. He’s not. “Shh.” One thin pale finger is pressed to his lips. Don’t talk to me, don’t say anything about anything. Ever. Forever never. The bard’s metallic digits are digging through her satchel for salves. She can’t do a push heal on him, the way Emilia had on her. Alvina’s bardic magics were not to that level. She had to rely on balms and oils, little jars of potions and the like to heal flesh and bone naturally. Too bad for both of them, that no such thing existed in her range for matters of the emotional heart. What about the physical heart you ask? Oh, at least a dozen. For murmurs or palpitations, blood clots...etc. Lionel is fine. So is Alvina. “I can look at him later,” comes her remark of Sundance, who is probably better than either of them right now. She looks at Lionel, meets his uncomfortable gaze with her own, a detectable shutter in the way she stares. “I’m only looking at you.” Then, she isn’t. Of course she just meant in the medical fashion. Looking at his injuries, trying to defuse the swelling with some of this or that. The jars all clatter together in her satchel until she finds the one she was looking for. More curls obscure her face, grazing her cheeks in the timid lighting. She sniffs the lid and recoils. Not the one she wanted after all...more searching yields the proper results and she’s pulling up a foot stool to rest on, her arms grazing his knees where he’s sitting. The tempo of her heart rate escalates as her fingers trail the largest (and by far reddest) of his scabbing wounds. It’s a thick, purple substance that smells like lavender. “This will bring down the swelling…” She notes, the heat of her breath catching on his arm. “People were talking; I thought you might have been dead.” This is blurted out after a long silence, in which she asked him to not speak. The pad of her thumb is massaging more salve onto some minor cuts, along his shoulders and the bend in his elbow. The scent of flowers, lavender fields in bright sunshine surrounds them. “I was concerned.” She states flatly, dodging his gaze to look through her satchel for something else.

Lionel soon finds Alvina’s finger on his lips and they quiver in autonomic response. Trepidation. His impulse is to kiss it. Would that he were so foolish. Instead, he sits. His heart further stirs. His back is rigid with anticipation of thoughts and acts that simply cannot be. Why, then, does he remain so secretly expecting? ‘I’m only looking at you.’ Lionel takes a breath. “I’m only looking at you, too,” is his answer, and then he waits. He doesn’t know what precisely it is that he is waiting on. The correct jar? The procedure? Which procedure? Medical procedure? The last time they’d spoken, a very different sort of medical procedure was afoot. He smiles, in memory. She’s applying something now. It stings, ever so slightly. Would that his heart could be so easily remedied. Alvina was concerned. She’s said so, herself. Lionel opens his mouth to speak, thinks better of it, and then finds himself peering into her evasive eyes. For a change, he is not lost in thought, but rather, her. What style of folly, compelling a broken man toward such feeling? A cat paws lazily down the hallway, disinterested. A few of the candles melt into even dimmer glow. An old redwood clock ticks atop a shelf filled with teas. The ticking does not seem as loud as his own heart.

Alvina eventually covers all visible marks on Lionel’s chest, shoulders and arms. Still she feels restless, unsatisfied. One full jar is empty. The thought crosses her mind, could she see any marks on his neck, did she want to? She couldn't just barge in here and demand he let her dress his wounds and then just leave. That was crazy. She doesn't know what to say, or remember why she really came. Lionel didn't really need her to save him… maybe she came for herself. To see he was okay. He didn't look well when she came in but he looked okay now. Better, more covered in stuff. She considers him secretly, sitting without a shirt on… Yes. Improvement. Ahem. “Do you have a powder room?” The tone did give way to her inner turmoil. She stands, the curtain of her hair shifting to fall back along her shoulders and the small of her back. Think about Hudson, the girls they just had. She was still exhausted, lost a lot of blood… felt like she had too much blood in her face. Couldn't keep herself from blushing. “P-powder room? “She asked again, trying not to look at his skin or think about how he smelled. She'd been too close, he must notice, it's so embarrassing.

Lionel considers Alvina, too. A masterstroke in understatement, that sentence. Her question is overheard but he’s rather distracted just now. They’re still so close and he is left wanting. “Ah, yeah,” he slides in some words, blinking in abrupt overwhelm that she must be exhausted. He leans marginally, swirling his body sideways a bit to avoid exposing his back as casually as he can. He reaches for his shirt, throws it over him, but leaves it unbuttoned. Standing slowly, the Catalian holds his hand out for hers. “This place is a bit of a maze. Dwarves, heh. Let me show you?” With or without her hand, his graceful step is back and he maintains a slower speed to avoid racing Alvina as they’ll move down two halls, past opened doors. One room’s filled with books but does not appear to be so organized as a library. Another is littered with half-finished hardware projects -- a table, a poorly-built chair, a better-built chair, a genuinely decent chair, and something which can only be described as a miniature feline hovel. The third room’s full to bursting with foodstuffs and even more books. And the fourth is precisely what the lady ordered. Lionel gestures. “You should eat,” he tells her, gently. “I want to try to cook something. If we survive the ordeal, I’ll be thankful.” He pauses, winces, and looks wayward as he departs down the hall to give her the space she might need. “Then again, I’m already pretty damned thankful.” The former Knight-Commander tilts to admire her beauty, just briefly, closes his eyes and breathes again on his way toward the kitchen.

Alvina finds herself trapped in Lionel’s gaze for a long moment, her eyes transparent emerald-panned windows into a world of hesitation. Did she dare to take his hand now, when the emotionless business of dressing wounds had ended? To pull free the floodgate of unimaginable emotions concealed, even to her? It was such a subtle, innocent thing...to let a man lead you by the hand. Yet, as her slowly deposited her palm against his, she felt like she’d handed him more. Couldn’t he read, just in how her skin prickled to engage in this harmless activity, how she longed for something. More. She felt grimy with greed. Would it be dreadful if he was manipulating her emotions? It wasn’t like she could promise him anything...nothing more than to guide her through this labyrinth in tow. There was something about this place...oddly familiar and in now way linked with what she left to come here. With her hand in his, she’d not just had twins. Could not find the name of their father on her lips. Grasped, floundering, just in Lionel’s stare. Gods forbid he ever want more than her hand from her. How could she deny him? The rooms they pass do not interest her. Objects, books come and go. Vanish in one room to reappear in the next, but the heat of his hand stays in hers. It’s strong this time, she notes, than when they met in the fort before she went into labor. The way her fingers tingle, just a bit, like they were going to be phased out...vanish magically from the rest of her hand, off to a world where Hudson Landon had never met her. ‘You should eat’. Lionel is speaking to her. She blinks, rapidly, trying to regain a sense of time and reality. He’s offering to cook for her, to repay her coming here or because he hasn’t eaten? It’s not clear. A nod of her head, to acknowledge this was the powder room she sought and in thanks for the offer. Alvina does not trust her lips to part. To speak. ‘I’ll be thankful,’ he says looking forlorn as ever. Here is where she has to let go of his hand, to separate and enter the room per her request. Maybe, if there is a wall between them, she can try her hand at drawing an even breath. The volume of her own thoughts is too loud, she does not hear him say that he is already thankful. If she had, she wouldn’t know what for. He’d just seen countless people perish, bridges literally burning, a fast decline in his career...but he was thankful. It would have baffled her, if she’d heard it.

Once inside the powder room, door closed and fastened tight behind her, she leans herself against the cool paneling of the wall. One hand clasped over her mouth, drawing heavily breaths through parted fingers. The other palm is flush to the wall, holding her upright. Her legs feel weak. Maybe she did need to eat. Maybe it was foolish of her to come all this way, waste the healing efforts of Emilia, abuse the healers that were watching her children, did she even know where Hudson was at the moment? Had she forgotten herself completely?? A mirror hangs over a basin in the powder room. The bard catches herself, looking so peakish and worn. Is that how Lionel had seen her? Gods...she steps forward to support her weight against it. Looks herself directly in the eyes, urging herself to put her feet back on the ground. What did she know about him? Nearly nothing! All rumors and shadows! All dark pasts and battles and silence!! People always talk about those in power, especially those that brand themselves heroes. He had to have several women courting him, throwing themselves at him, all without children or husbands or all the proper things she had. She’d made the decision to have these children and now? Now, she sickly wished that Hudson had just never found out. She could have never told anyone, maybe even set the children up for adoption but- Is this really her? It must be this place. She’s never fallen victim to any charm because of fame or fortune. Never gone weak in the knees for anyone just by looking at them. Things had a process! She screamed silently to herself. This was not the due course and you should stop this foolishness immediately. Do not forget yourself! A heavy sigh drips from her lips. What could she do? With a steady resolve, Alvina walked back out into the hallway and trailed down the hall alone to remember which of the myriad doors and hallways had been the kitchen. No matter that he just passed all this rooms with her a moment before. It felt like a lifetime ago, to have his hand burning so brightly in hers.

Lionel is chopping up pasta. That’s something cooks do, right? This pasta seems incessantly long, so surely it needs chopping. Lionel does not understand that the pasta will soften up enough so as to seem smaller once it absorbs the water. This pasta is going to be unique, but in Lionel’s mind it will be fine. Yes, it can be said that Lionel is fine. Alvina is halfway across the estate behind a closed door. It is true that this is Lionel’s estate but it’s a large place and she’s all the way over there and he’s all the way over here. Maybe they will not see each other. “Wait, no, I just invited her to dinner.” He mumbles it to himself quietly and sets water to boiling. There are other ingredients involved here. Most of them are correct. None of the preceding sentences matter in the slightest. Lionel feels exuberant from Alvina’s very presence. She just had two children to another man and Lionel can’t even focus on anything more than his happiness for her -- and for himself, that she is here. His pulse is racing and his mind is fixated on their every encounter. Then it hangs on their hands intertwined; he cannot seem to move on from that aspect. Her hand is soft, cool, perfect. What does he even know of her? She’s an accomplished engineer with deep ties to the country he serves. She just had two beautiful babies and she’s all but formally promised to someone else. Actually, she may even -be- promised to someone else. What delusion, this? What grandeur in scale, that O’Connor should fall in love again after all this passage of time and it’s to someone he simply cannot have? He begins to shake. Tears well up on his eyes and it’s not from the boiling moisture in the dish beside him. The pasta will burn if he doesn’t notice soon but his soul is wandering over to a faraway land where he and she can marry and love and be. And then quite suddenly a comment from the spectator: “Take it off the burner…” It’s Sundance and he’s fast asleep again mere seconds past the observation; Lionel blinks and does as he’s told. Good. His dwarves have ever given him the very best advice. There really isn’t anything the dwarves have ever said that Lionel hasn’t at least considered. “One more thing…” It’s Sundance again. How is it this lumbering man can flitter in and out of consciousness so verily? “Um, yes?” Sundance gets up in an oafish display of drunkenness and immediately makes for the door. “That lady’s into you,” Lionel is dutifully informed, and then the dwarf has exited the premises. Lionel stares at the door for a while, blankly, his heart beating even faster now. Suddenly, all the barriers are gone. All the variables disappear. All the why-nots become whys and the whys have but one answer: Alvina Liadon. Lionel isn’t sure when it is that he stops door-staring and starts down the hall but he’s in front of her in short order and he offers a quick and decent smile to avoid what must be certainly be an awkward moment. His mental mask is not only gone, it’s shattered. Unbeknownst to Lionel, his azure gaze is so blatantly betraying the love that he feels. “I’m cooking pasta,” he stammers out, but no sooner has he finished one phrase than he’s at her with one more: “And I’m in love with you.”

Alvina is clutching the strap to her satchel when Lionel appears, seemingly out of thin air, to stand before her with the oddest expression. He looked a bit panicked...like he might try to ...eat her? What a rash assumption. Wasn’t he just going to say something about dinner?? The bard takes a step back, after his approach. He’d stopped just shy of running into her but that’s not the proper distance for people having conversations. This was, she thought, giving them about an arm’s length. H-has he gone mad? Did he have a bad reaction to the balms she’d used? She looks at his neckline...but most of the swelling has gone down. It was only temporary sure but it made her feel better, thinking things would heal properly. In the time before he speaks, she wonders if he’s going to confess how upset he’s been about Briar, or being demoted. He looks perched on the edge of saying something important. It’s a bit too dramatic. Alvina nervously wrings her hands on the satchel strap and waits for what he saying. Oh. He’s making Pasta? That soun- What? Did? He? Say? Her knuckles have gone white, squeezing the leather strap across her shoulder. Her eyes wide, pupils shrink down to pin size and she stares at him. “W-what?” What was he doing?! Was that even true!? Was he insane?! “I…” A pause, while she stumbles over how to reply. She is nothing short of flustered, and hesitant. “Y-you just saw me give birth and….met my...” She doesn’t give him a title. Though it’s odd, that she isn’t wearing a ring, it’s clear that she does have tarnished mark on her left middle metallic finger...where a ring would normally be. She had been engaged to Hudson just a few months before...now? She was just his girlfriend. Father of her children. Alvina had told Lionel, when they met in the fort before that she was...with someone else. Nothing could come of his feelings. Why had he not listened then? Before he got hurt and hurt her in the process? “I...I should go…” This is whispered to the flooring, the bard can’t stare back at him, she assumes he’s waiting nervously for the reciprocation of his feelings. “We don’t know anything about each other.” It was mostly true. They’d only known each other for a short time...not long enough for him to profess that he loved her. What did he hope to gain by saying this?! She’d been worried, yes, but clearly she had nothing to worry about. Lionel was fine.

Fine enough to speak so boldly, without regard for how it would reflect or make her feel. She’s two steps past in, in a blur of navy, announced by the click of her heel against the flooring and the sweeping of her cloak in the rush of air. Something stops her dead in her tracks. A rustling, in her satchel. Everything else is forgotten. The bard drops to her knees in the floor, both hands jut into the bag that’s laid before her and sort around for something hidden. Something secret. From Lionel’s perspective, nothing in the bag would be visible. Alvina’s body is blocking everything from view. A relieved sigh, when she finds what she was looking for. “Come here,” She says, looking up at Lionel if he doesn’t take the hint. “On the floor, quietly.” Whatever she has in her hands is clutched against her chest now, little peeks of lilac shining through her fingers. “I came to check on you...since I heard about...everything. About Briar. About Hildegarde. About the bridge...” Slivers of crimson cut her face, making her feel hidden and less vulnerable to him. “I thought maybe you needed...someone.” One of his hands is taken by hers, led to her other hand to touch the small creature there within. It was a kitten. The smallest kitten Alvina has ever seen. A puffy mess of a creature with it’s ears bent instead of standing up straight. It was chubby, and tired even still. It must have been sleeping in her bag the whole way here. The kitten lifts it’s head to blink at Lionel, it’s azure eyes matching his perfectly.

Lionel, at first, feels as if he has stood at the precipice of a fatal emotional fall. Ten years he has gone without falling and now he pays the price for breaking that trend-- reasonable rejection from a woman with far greater sense than he. She’s shocked, perhaps even appalled? It’s all quite rational; how could he have possibly fathomed any other reaction? He’s not even looking at signs for betrothal; his mind never even made it that far. He knows she’s promised, on some level or another, and that her twins deserve a family undivided. Lionel, now, begins to feel a disturbance with himself. How could he have wanted this? What does it mean, that he still wants it even as Alvina backs away? She’s hurting. He has done this. His cheeks flush red and his entire body feels worthless. Unworthy. Ten years… how could he have chosen her? Yet it’s almost as if he hasn’t, as if his heart has not cared what the rest of him has known. His heart chose Alvina because she warms him even now. And Lionel, floored by his haste and swallowing hard, has hurt her. “I’m sorry,” he says, and his words are meek and filled with guilt. “I’m… I’m sorry, I don’t…” He stammers. “It’s been ten years,” he admits, finally. “Ten years since my wife was slain in a terrible war.” No, Lionel. Elazul seized your body and forced you to do it yourself. But right now, that’s not something that ought to be said. Right now, if Lionel has any hope of salvaging this, any hope of easing the pain he’s causing this beautiful woman, he needs to be brief. Besides, he’s not certain he can speak for long, anyway. “I haven’t loved since. I haven’t felt… -anything…- since. I clearly do not… I cl-clearly lack… um, -any- semblance of tact or common sense in these matters… I’m s-sorry, lass. To just say that to you…” It’s how he feels, though. It’s not that he doesn’t. But he shouldn’t have gone about things this route… she’s so beyond flustered and he did this. Then she’s… falling. Oh frakking heck, Lionel has caused her to tumble. Should he come nearer to her? Should he help her up? He shakes and takes the slightest vaguest step forward, nervous and cautious but worried for her safety. ‘Come here,’ Alvina requests. Lionel looks at her, almost frightened. His guilt is still etched like a painting upon his features, his stance, his all. And then she’s explaining, and the most precious little thing Lionel can fathom is right there between them, and he can’t quite see Alvina herself, but her hand is upon his, and he’s petting the kitten with the unusual ears and the matching eyes and his pulse finally slows into steadier rhythm. “Th-thank you…” Lionel’s guilt remains plain, but his blush is just embarrassment and quiet joy. His haggard breathing is becalmed. With every passing petting motion, even right here with Alvina so very close despite their circumstances, he’s feeling better. “Belisama,” he announces with tonal intent. “Catalian goddess. Ties to Minerva. Bright. Strong. Proud.” He smiles. “That’s what I’ll name her… Alvina, I’m so sorry. You came here to check up on me and I told you something like that. I’m sorry…” Belisama purrs.

Alvina lets Lionel take and name the kitten. It wasn't hers as much as she wanted it to be... She had plenty of love and company... Fate found her... And she brought it to him. There's nothing left for her to do with his hands. The bard can only sit there, and stare at the empty space the ball of fur left. The apology written all over Lionel's face. He was wrong to stomp out here and pronounce his love. It must have just stemmed from loneliness... She held her breath. Fearing she was too transparent with her affections. She would have to try harder to be detached. Friendly, but not too familiar. Helpful but not beyond what she might do for a stranger. This man... She could not offer him anything... But she wanted to. Maybe everything is transparent on her face, sitting in the floor, having pulled Lionel down into the floor with her. He's holding this kitten now... It's purr a rhythmic reminder, a palpable heartbeat between them. Something seized her, some ghost or curse. Some... Demon of impulse and terrible decisions. While Lionel is holding the kitten, Alvina leans forward, drinking in the Knight's soothing gaze before pressing her lips to his, hurriedly. Lest he have time to react, to kiss her back. It's so quiet but electrifying. No one else in all the world would ever know, save Belisama... And the small kitten was half way asleep as it was. Emerald eyes reflect the clear azure of Lionel's stare. The bard is not smiling. She looks more concerned now than ever before. "I can not see you or come here again." She's right to think so. To state the truth so clearly. "I do not love you." A beat, she feels her own heart sink, drained and anchored to the floor. Alvina is trying to stand up in quick sand... Her legs shaking. From the kiss or the journey... From the healing magics in the balm... From Lionel's confession or the birthing days prior... Truly impossible to pin point just one thing that caused her to stand, too quickly and topple back into the floor as if she'd never tried to stand. No one is more shocked by this than her. Her arm is extended towards the Knight, a silent 'Do not help me' as she tried again in rushed succession and finds her feet. Right. Now then. There is no time for anyone to react but her, and she's turned on her heels to head towards the front door, the silken threads of her crimson hair, casting the dramatic impression of a cape round her shoulders as she goes. She means very much what she's said. Alvina Liadon will never see Lionel O'Connor again. Of this much, she is certain.

Lionel is only just now seeing Alvina’s face again in the final seconds before it happens. It is, to him, a canvas of hurt and splendor. There is a quality about this woman he loves, a quality that suggests some style of reciprocation tucked haphazardly underneath. It blinds him, and then her kiss blinds him again, and in that newer and fuller blindness, he thinks what a fool he was to believe he could not see before it. The kiss sparks a truth which springs and swells in his soul: he is incomplete now without her. Her eyes are the most beautiful eyes Lionel thinks he has ever seen, but the rest of her is rigid and tense and daunting and fearful and… sad. Wars may come and go, but it’s killing him to see her so. Her words arrive and they’re daggers in the dark despite the radiant light he feels she casts in all things. Even while stabbed, by the cruelty of reality shattering this fever-pitch fantasy, Lionel rushes to Alvina’s aid as she stumbles… but she does not want his help. She cannot have it, Lionel realizes, and the daggers seem to burst into flame upon his sinking heart. And then she’s gone. And when Lionel O’Connor is left to his thoughts, and his sorrow, and his guilt, and his pain, he cannot breathe but for to look and see this perfect little creature she has left to purr and nurture. His eyes shut, his tears fall, and he prays to all the gods he’s surely infuriated too many times to listen that please, please, let him see her one more time, let him gaze upon her, that she might gaze upon him but with a smile, not an ache, let their paths cross but not to harm her, let Alvina Liadon send her warmth upon an unworthy fool. He will love her either way. Of this much and more, he is certain.