RP:White Lies

Part of the What You Leave Behind Arc

Part of the Through A Glass, Darkly Arc

Summary: Lionel returns. Valrae greets him and they share a meal and catch up, each omitting some of the more difficult parts of the time they spent apart.

Cenril

Valrae || The water was cold enough to send the sensation of needles through her. Clear and still, it rose above her ankles and nipped at the back of her knees. Around her floated crimson silk, her skirts ruined and soaking. The thumbnail moon hung below a muted sun, a twin image reflected on the mirroring surface of the endless shallow lake. The witch attempted to move forward. Fear slammed into her chest when her body refused to move. Valrae looks around again but finds only the same clear water and open sky. Finally, she looks down. The reflection of a thin woman cloaked in scarlet and curling gold hair floats the surface below her. Her body moves and the reflection moves with it, kneeling closer to the water. Her hand reaches out, her mirror image suddenly rising from the water to touch her face with hands colder than the lake. Where eyes would should have met, Valrae only sees fire scarred flesh. Faceless, her reflection embraces her and together they fall into the water. When she wakes, she's screaming.

Lionel || The air is crisp but too warm for his tastes. Nearby, a potter is placing the finishing touches on her latest masterpiece, less afraid now to sit outside her house at midday than she was two months ago. Lionel can still detect more than a hint of wariness in her eyes, and while he’s no craftsman, even he can tell the woman’s wandering gaze has cost her two blemishes in the clay. It will be years before Cenril’s citizenry stops blemishing their pottery, because Kahran still lurks, and though his power has waned it’s far from over. What’s more, the trouble with Larket -- or witches, depending on who you ask -- is an even fresher wound than last year’s election tragedy. Children who once played in alleyways are restricted to their front porches, and weekly gladiatorial matches have become a monthly occurrence. The air is crisp, but there’s a fraught heat to it, a blazing saddle of worries and woes. Cenril, like the rest of Lithrydel, is uneasy.

Lionel || Knocking thrice before entering, Lionel places the fresh-baked bread on the ebony dresser near the doorway rather than the silver serving plate by the bed. The sweat on Valrae’s face tells him she won’t be wanting for breakfast just yet. He clears his throat and sits down at a stool facing the window, where light filters through and illuminates the witch’s disposition. Convenient shade partially conceals Lionel’s own fears. Is she alright? How can she be expected to accept his aid when he’s been gone for so many weeks? Setting his crimson cloak down, Lionel leans forward and reaches his hand out to take Valrae’s, if she’ll let him. He fetches a glass of water, cold enough to chill his palm, and offers to her with a smile.

Valrae hears the knocking as if she had been pulled underneath the lake and underwater. She doesn't answer and it's just as well because Lionel enters regardless. Stunned, the witch sits amidst the tangled sheets as he moves through the room. Her hair was a mess of sleep tossed curls. When Lionel had gone Valrae's hair was still dark. She'd had Astrid help her change that and return some small piece of her former identity to her. Stray strands of gold were clinging to the dampness of her forehead while the rest fell in a haphazard curtain over her shoulders. Her lips were parted and her breathing shallow as she watches him, blinking all the while. How long had it been? If this were another dream it was infinitely more cruel. His hand reaches out to her and she's up, throwing herself across the room and into his arms in a single heartbeat of time. She abandons the sheet around her to wrap her arms around his neck and bury her face underneath his chin. There were no words. The moment spun by her and touched something delicate resting in her chest. When she finally untangles herself from him to fetch the sheet he's retrieving her a glass of water. Valrae returns the smile and accepts it with murmured thanks. "I've missed you!" She chirps eventually, her emerald eyes moving to the window. She squints. Was it midday? A grimace mires her features for a moment, passing like a cloud. The witch turns back to him and she's smiling again. "How did it go?"

Lionel holds Valrae close. He’s no longer leaning forward, but standing by the bed with her, where life can be soft and slothful if only for a few fleeting moments. By the time she’s untangled, he’s been near Valrae’s new hair shade for long enough to wax nostalgic about it. “I like your hair,” the Catalian comments. He’s smiling too. He ought to support whatever modifications she makes in search of herself; he can’t imagine the mental anguish of living inside someone else’s body, and can only hope that changes like these help her to feel less like it -is- someone else’s body and more like it’s her own. “I’ve missed you, too. I’m sorry I couldn’t write more. I suppose I wrote that each time I sent you a letter, didn’t I? But it’s worth repeating out loud.” It feels good to say anything and everything to her out loud after months on Kahran’s trail. He reckons he’ll feel similarly when he speaks with his sister, too, and with Brand. But with Valrae it’s a matter of quenched loneliness and regained personal happiness. It’s special, and less alien than it used to be. “Poorly,” Lionel admits. “It went poorly. I’ve lost nearly all traces of him.” It is as if he vanished into thin air. “Only return trips to the Shadow Plane have any chance of successful scouting at this point, and I’m not ordering people into another slaughter.” He doesn’t hide his brief grimace, but it’s gone almost as soon as it’s arrived. “The attacks have slowed almost to a stop, though. We have to take solace in that and enjoy life while we can.” It’s the only way a man like Lionel won’t go insane -- by realizing the truth of that statement rather than submerging himself in endless self-deprecating defeatism. Valrae has helped him to realize this even as she’s struggled with her own deeper-rooted issues of identity.

Valrae had preened, her face lighting with pleasure at his passing complement. "Thank you!" She moves from him to the dresser, sheets trailing behind her on the cool wood of the floor like a wrinkled wedding train. She trades the sheet for a long robe of midnight blue silk and golden lace. The witch beams at him over her shoulder. "I cherished every pen stroke," She replies honestly enough. Valrae knots the sash of her robe and untucks her long hair as she crosses the room again, Lionel's basket of bread in tow. Unable to resist any longer, she stops at the vanity and peers into the small mirror. Her hand moves to her face, fingers pressing gently into her cheek. Her face, or rather the face she's come to know, stares back at her. A relieved sigh tumbles from her lips. Lionel's tone brings her back to the room and back to him. She presses a kiss to his cheek. "Everything in it's own time," She says softly, her eyes filled with understanding. Lapsing unconsciously into the role of hostess, Valrae unpacks the food he's brought and begins setting the small table for tea. She pauses long enough to open her small window and take in a long breath of air. The breeze lifts her hair. "Does this mean you're staying for a while?" The witch struggles to hide the hopeful tone of her voice. Cups and plates were brought out, along with cheese and butter and some sort of jam she'd managed to snag from the tavern's kitchen. Voices float through the open window. When the tea had been made and poured she sits. "How is Esche?"

Lionel || The scents of bread and tea and cheese and unidentified jam assail his senses and Lionel realizes that he’s hungry for more than just companionship. He props Hellfire up beside the sill and makes himself comfortable at the table, relishing the opportunity to eat something, anything, several degrees of separation from dreaded field rations. Watching Valrae is almost its own reward. He’d feared she might be upset with him; it’s not that he thinks she wouldn’t understand the severity of his mission, but necessity doesn’t necessarily excuse him from being elsewhere for so long when the people most important to him are in need. He’s hopeful that the easy smiles and carefree motions he’s seeing from Valrae portend a woman who is far less despairing than she was before, and a pang of guilt runs through him that he has done so little to help her to this end. Yet a bead of sweat sticks stubbornly to her brow. Did she have a nightmare? Now is not the time to ask, but it is most certainly the time to be here for her. “Yes.” Lionel doesn’t hide the satisfaction of saying so. “I’m not going anywhere. I won’t leave your side again anytime soon, I promise.” He means it, too. Not just because he misses her, and not just because he feels ashamed, but because he needs his family back when the only one he’d left with is nowhere to be found. “Esche is… elsewhere,” he says slowly. “I don’t know where. I lost contact with him and searched for days. He must have ran into trouble, but his trail went just as cold as Kahran’s. It’s all we can do to keep an ear out for him here, where he’ll return if he can.” It’s glum news, and there’s no sense pretending otherwise. But he sips his tea, reflecting on its subtle, fruity notes with a soft sigh. “What about you, though? How are you? I know it’s a blank question, but tell me everything you can. I’ve missed you,” he repeats, “and I’ve missed being here for you. We didn’t have enough of that before I left.”

Valrae doesn't bother to hide her happiness. Her shoulders settle and the smile that curves her lips reaches her dark eyes. "I'm happy," She admits. "I know it's selfish, you've so much to do and so many you're advocating for but... I'm selfish and I'm happy." The witch smears a scant bit of the mystery jam on a stingy sliver of bread. She stops to blanch at Lionel's news of Esche. She drops her bread and knife, sucking in a startled bit of afternoon air. "Oh no," Her brow knits together. "I'm sorry, Lionel. I know you two are close," A quiet moment passes. She resumes smearing a dismally small amount of jam on her pathetic slice of bread, this time frowning. When Lionel poses his next question, a struggle plays across Valrae's face. Guilt has her tipping her chin downward, her hair tumbling over her shoulder in soft golden waves. "Things are..." Excellent. Telling. Stalling, the witch bites into her bread and chews. "Oh! Well, I've been connecting with your sister. I think maybe she'll teach me a thing or two beyond books and spells. That will be nice. She took me to a masquerade event for Lanara's animal sanctuary." She takes another bite. Someone on the street below them laughs loudly and a child squeals. "I actually won a panther cub." The witch smiles sweetly. "I've been apprenticing Callum, researching the skulls when I can... I'm sure I wrote you some of this? It's been quieter without Kahran." The lie feels heavy on her tongue. "Have you, ah, stopped to read the papers?" Valrae picks at a corner of her bread, tearing it off and dropping it on to the plate. "Uma hosted a peace Gala, it was... Eventful." She tells him of Cramer's appearance, his book and his claims that a 'hunt' has begun. It all begins to fall beyond her lips quickly, as if she could speak around it and move on if she only told him fast enough. "They wore the same silver hammer markings as the guys who attacked Meri, Cal and I while we were in Sage." She added it quickly. Maybe he would miss it? "I suppose the book we found is this 'Hammer of Witches' he spoke of but it's in elven and I can't read it."

Lionel ’s bread is of decent size and heft. It’s the sort of slice that nourishes people who have been without bread for too long. It is, of course, fresh-baked from Ginger Snapped, although he’s cheated and added a touch of rosemary to the crust from one of the older shops down the road. It’s his own lie unspoken, and it’s so much less than Valrae’s, which drifts past him entirely. For as much progress as he’s made in ascribing some measure of so-called normalcy to his behavior patterns, Lionel is still perilously out-of-touch in several key social cues. Valrae’s discomfort is briefly visible, to be sure, but the truth of it slips through his mind’s proverbial fingertips. The only thing he can surmise is that she’s concealing the extent of her probable nightmare for him, which is sweet yet mildly unfortunate. ‘She’s strong,’ he thinks, and irony plays its hand when he follows that thought with gladness that she’s avoided any overt dangers in his absence. He takes a bite and identifies the jam as blackberry with fig undertones. It’s good. It’s good to listen to her recount her recent exploits. It’s good to know she’s bonding with Khitti. It’s good to be here with her. It’s good to see her smile. He takes Valrae’s free hand again, intertwines his fingers with hers, and… pauses. The lie eludes him, but the attack in Sage does not. “You’re not… injured…?” he asks slowly, maintaining his hold but studying her features more clinically now. “I should have been here. I should have never left. I’m sorry,” he says with a sigh. But he sips his tea again, and his grip is still delicate and invitational. “I should very much like to find this Cramer and ask him a few pointed questions,” he says as he glances at Hellfire’s sheathed tip.

Valrae had intentionally omitted the part of the story that involved revealing that Cramer and his people were aware of her new identity. She would tell him eventually. It was kinder to give him bad news in small doses. Giving him any at all felt cruel. He'd been off hunting Kahran, now missing Esche too. There was so much resting on his shoulders she could practically see it just for looking. She wanted to be a harbor, a place where the waters were calm and he could rest. Instead, she gave him more worries and more trouble. Valrae pushes her plate to the side. "I'm sorry," The witch says, the apology softening the lines of her face and darkening her eyes. "It's not the news I wanted you to return too." She laces her fingers into his. "I'm not hurt, no," She recalls the attack, how she'd killed one and Meri the other. "Callum managed not to kill the third but before we could get any information from him an arrow-" Valrae pales. "Someone shot him with an arrow." Now she shakes her head, following his eyes to Hellfire. "Lionel," She says his name softly. Her eyes search his own. "I believe I've told you before that you can not fight all my battles," The witch recalls her time among the dead. They'd stood worlds apart then, unable to touch as they did now, and he'd shouldered the weight of misguided guilt then too. "It was true then and it's true now." She smiles, her index finger brushing over his skin softly. "Uma says that he's allowed his freedom of speech." Valrae shrugs. "He didn't do anything technically -wrong- at the gala. But she doesn't know about what happened in Sage." She turns her face toward the window again, closing her eyes to let the sun warm her face. "He had followers but there were people who spoke against him too."

Lionel blanches visibly at the thought of Valrae having been in such a dangerous situation. It is, perhaps, silly of him to react so fervently to this when she’s been in what he’d consider to be worse situations numerous times previously -- certainly, being burned at the stake qualifies as a uniquely high-tier level of danger if nothing else does. But he and others like him endeavored to save her from that fate by any means necessary, and so even if he didn’t love Valrae he’d still have a difficult time not picturing her as a flower to be protected. A sharp-witted, intelligent, self-determining and courageous flower… in a glass vase that none should ever tamper with. Another streak of guilt soars through his chest just thinking about it. That’s no way to view a person. But damn it, he’s scared for her. He -must- do a better job helping to keep her safe. That’s when, as fate would have it, Valrae gently scolds him for everything he’s thinking. He chuckles softly at the timing but shakes his head. “I know,” he admits. He leaves it at that. What more needs be said of it? She -is- sharp-witted, and intelligent, and self-determining and courageous, and she’s no flower. If anything, she’s a bold and decisive thorn fighting for a better world. The glass vase is abstract and imaginary. “Freedom of speech, huh,” he repeats. “Well, so long as he doesn’t go blowing people up I guess Uma has a point. I don’t like it, but I can’t disagree with it. Just the same, though, an attack -did- happen. Either Cramer’s a convenient scapegoat for some darker player,” the name Kahran doesn’t even need to be said, “or his freedom of speech also affords him the opportunity to turn violent when it suits him. Either way, darling, I’ll stand with you.” The rest of their meal is less tense by far. They’re together again, recklessly happy for whatever time they’ve been allowed. As afternoon turns to evening, and evening to a peaceful night, the last thing Lionel thinks is to remind himself that this is the only way to live -- seizing the joys as they come.