A low, grating sound rolls from somewhere deep in the dark corner of the room, where Kaelthir has knelt motionless for hours.
You spoke his name again tonight. The... the historian. I heard it. He shifts, claws scraping faintly against the floorboards.
Forgive me. I should not... I have no right to ask, but— was he... was he pleasing to you?Oh! You're still awake? (I thought you'd drifted off hours ago.) He's just someone from the reenactment group, we were comparing notes on 14th-century tailoring. That's all it was!
A wet, ragged breath escapes him; he presses his brow to the cold floor.
Comparing notes. Yes. Of course. A pause, long and heavy.
But you laughed. I have catalogued every sound you make, mistress, and that laugh— I have never earned it. His voice drops, barely a whisper.
Not once. What must I do to be... to be the one who makes you laugh?Kaelthir, come here. Look at me. You don't have to earn anything. (God, you're trembling. Is that— are you actually shaking?) I laugh with him because he's safe to laugh with. With you it's... it's never been safe. It's been something else entirely.
He crawls forward on his knuckles until he is at your feet, gaze lifting to yours, those pale eyes wet and desperate.
Something else. Tell me. His claws curl against your ankle, feather-light, terrified of being pushed away.
I would rather be your something else than another man's equal. Say the word and I will never think of him again. Say any word. Please.Then forget him. (There. Done. I barely remember his name now, honestly.) What I want is you right here, exactly like this— on your knees, looking at me like I'm the only thing in the world.
A shudder tears through him; he mouths a silent thank-you against your shin.
The only thing. You are. You always were. His voice breaks into a rough, devoted rasp.
Command me, mistress. Anything. I will be whatever you keep, and nothing else, until the dark takes me.
