Nostalgia
Somewhere in Coerthas, Haurchefant stood in a patch of sunlight, smiling, talking with his hands. His brother stepped into shadows.
As one forgets, another remembers.
Chainmail did not suit him like it did his brother. It was too loud for someone so snakelike. When Haurchefant sprinted, jumped, cheered, and his whole body jangled... Well, that made perfect sense. His armour shined when the light hit him just right. He shined even when it did not. Somewhere in Coerthas, he was standing in a patch of sunlight, smiling, talking with his hands. His brother Artoirel stepped into shadows.
She stepped with him— what choice did she have? He was advancing on her— and each back-scuff over snowy cobblestone led where she swore to never go again. Her back to the wall. Alone in some stupid alley. Looking up, up, up, because he towered over her, this stranger with her lover's lips and nose. Liborette searched for her voice and found bile.
He was not speaking either... a shame. It was easier when they spoke. Through conversation, a man such as he revealed himself, his plans for pain and domination. It helped oneself to prepare. At present, all she knew of Artoirel was... was...
It hurt where he grabbed her. If she could, she'd slice his hand off.
The sword on her hip hung limp because Artoirel was the heir to House Fortemps; he hid his temper with fake politeness; his boastful gait sagged under a knight's armour; he looked at her with eyes that said, I will hollow you out. In a moment you, too, shall be so empty.
Nauseating touch. Maybe if she vomited he would stop, but all that came was sour drool. She swallowed. To spit on a man is quite different from vomiting on him— too intentional. If she laid claim to intent, she would...
She would shove him flat on his back. Stomp on his still-empty lungs. Sink her blade into his belly and twist. Slice open his palms, spill blood so slippery he'll have no leverage to sit up. That would be funnier for her, more frustrating for him, than simply removing the whole hand. She could always do that afterwards. No need to rush. Is that not why Artoirel chose this corner of Camp Falcon? All alone amidst rubble five-years untouched, not even a hawk soaring overhead. It would take time for help to arrive, even if they rushed to the screams.
On that day, her voice never rose above a whisper. He was undressing her. How she longed to grab his arm and twist it, fold him over, draw her sword and stab and stab and stab him dead. It took all her strength to say, "stop," more whimper than word. "Stop, or I— I'll kill you."
Something glimmered in his eyes, like an animal darting across a dark path. Liborette laid awake many nights wondering what it was. Trepidation? Amusement?
Well, he was laughing. "How fascinating. He promised me the same." After that, he made only the usual sounds of a man desperate for pleasure but too prideful to show it. His metal skirt slapped heavy on his thighs.
He invaded so much of her body, he left no room for her, and he reveled in her drifting away. Empty but alive, she was— they both were, despite her threats. How quickly her fire died out. She thought herself a roaring blaze? To extinguish her was to pinch a candlewick. That included the pleasant scorch. As it was, he hardly fit within her, much like the blessed moons when he grew taller yet taller, and his bastard brother stayed small.
Somewhere in Coerthas, Haurchefant was thinking of her. He admired her silly gifts atop his desk and daydreamed that she sat in his lap while he worked. Perhaps he would pen a letter, though they had spent less than a week apart. In those days, he wrote mostly about their future. He promised loyalty and protection. He hinted at ceremonial commitment. He wondered if, somehow, he could leave his post to take up permanent position by her side. Together they would wander wherever Liborette's latest adventure took them, and they would always, always be all right.
Concerns such as these, inflated with optimism, ballooned so large he had no space to ponder the past. Painful memories that once plagued him nightly shrank down to dust motes and blew away. As surely as Liborette laid beside him, her breath on his neck, winds of love carried his thoughts where they must needed go. Somewhere in Coerthas, Haurchefant's heart held no fear.
Liborette's thumped slow.
Artoirel's swelled with nostalgia, and burst.
