• Closed • That Which We Carry

[Everett Ward]

7 Vhalar 716

Everett Ward was not a patient man. Whether it was his privileged upbringing or not was left to speculation, but Everett did not consider it to influence his patience. Instead, he blamed his desire for perfection. No, not a desire. It was an intrinsic need. If things were not as they could be, in their purest form, he was not happy with the outcome. It was how he'd earned a reputation has a shrewd businessman. He demanded that every deal be made to its utmost efficiency, and settled for nothing less.

And since moving to the city, away from his family’s estate, things had become chaotic and stressful. As he stood over the fire, stirring the bean soup they were having with the beef steaks, a frown crept into his visage. In Berwick, he had servants for this. He would sit back and enjoy his whisky while they waited on him hand and foot. The food was always delicious and was eaten in the lap of luxury. Here… Here, there was no luxury. There was no servant to wait on. He was tired of food that tasted like shit, he was tired of slaving over a cooking pot to come up with something barely edible so they could survive.

But he would survive. They would survive. He resented that Ashira wasn’t cooking, that she didn’t cook. She was always off, looking for roots or scrambling up trees for fruits that smelled like rotting flesh and could kill a man with a single sip of its sap. She was a brilliant woman, and cunning, which made her more dangerous to Everett. But he didn’t worry. He knew that she would only kill him if given a truly good enough reason. Without her bearing him a son, she needed him alive. She needed him for his family’s money.

But he resented her, and she him. The two of them would have been the perfect couple, had they actually deigned to love each other. He suspected that he did love her, or at least loved her usefulness. And he had no illusions that she was some doe-eyed tart with half a brain and even less sense. She knew what he brought to the table. She knew that she needed him to maintain her lifestyle, though… What lifestyle is it now? He gritted his teeth. He knew that she followed him here dutifully, but he pulled her from the lifestyle in which the two had been raised. From fine dresses and jewelry, from roasted boar and stuffed pheasant. He’d brought her to Andaris and forced her to struggle alongside him.

It would all be worth it though. In the end, he knew that his name would be one that struck awe and admiration in men, namely his father. Elliot Ward was a powerful man in Berwick, and one that Everett strove to impress in all his actions. And it had never been enough. Jaded and bitter, Everett wanted to become a captain of industry to spite his father, and one day, the Ward diamond mines would be his. Until that day, though, Everett knew he needed to keep his head down and remain in his father’s good graces. It shouldn’t be long. The man was getting old, and though he had the best health his nels could buy, they could only buy so many arcs…

The smell of the boiling soup brought him from his reverie. Unceremoniously, he ladled some into a small glass bowl, the warmth spreading through it like fire through kindling. He turned to the side and set it on the table, in front of Ashira’s wine glass. She had yet to make her appearance, but he knew that she would soon. The steaks sizzled over the fire and spit as fat seared off. He pulled them, rare, as well and set them on plates already set on the table. Then came his own soup, which he set next to his glass, which was full of ice and whisky. He poured a glass of dry red for Ashira and sat down, touching the tips of his fingers together as he seethed over the meal he’d prepared. For every passing moment she did not join him, his ire grew. The dwindling brown liquid in his glass helped to grow that ire too.

When she finally joined him, his sharp eyes would never leave her, a glare condemning her to ingratitude and vilifying her for not appreciating his obsequiousness. His jaw remained clenched, tight as he tried not to grind his teeth. His whisky glass, conspicuously empty by that point, sat in his tightened left hand, the glass nearly shattering under the fury of his grip.

[Ashira Ward]

Ashira had risen early that day, as she usually did assuming that no patient had kept her up through the night, and she'd not tried to seek out much work here and was largely unknown, so that had become a rare occurrence. Much of the first half of her day had been dedicated to cleaning. She might have to live in this hovel, she was assured it was much larger and finer that what most people lived in in the city, but she damned well wasn't going to live in a dirty hovel. There should have been people to do this. As a Thorn they'd had an old couple who lived with them and took care of most such things, and there was never any shortage of those looking to curry favour or pay for medical treatment through trade rather than coin. Sometimes there were even those who wanted the chance to learn beside her parents, and always they started out with cleaning.

Things had to be clean.

This was very nearly a neurosis. It was not a particularly surprising one however. She was from a family of healers. Anyone who any amount of skill and training in that field knew that one of your best chances for success with a patient, as well as to make sure that you yourself stayed healthy was cleanliness. Keep surfaces clean. Always thoroughly clean any tools after use. Wash hands between tasks. She was not like some she had met. Those with problems within their brains, or possibly souls, there was some disagreement here, many even blamed curses. The ones who had to wash their hands a precise number of times using precise motions or else they could not function. She could go without her habits when she needed to and remain functional. Without a pressing reason not to though, she kept things clean.

So while there were no great chandeliers, no marble, no intricate mosaics, no menagerie of exotic potted plants, their home was clean.

In truth, were she not used to more, and had she not then married even higher, if she had been an average citizen, she would have been more than pleased with their home. It was twice as large as most accommodations, and while it did not contain particularly much, what it did have was well made. Hovel was not a word the majority of Idalos would have used to describe the home of Everett and Ashira Ward.

It wasn't even truly that much worse than her home when she'd still been on Oakleigh. The real issue was not the home. It wasn't even that she had to tend it herself. It was that she'd never wanted to move here. To this miserable place with people crammed in on top of each other, where it was too loud and stunk. Where no one knew her. Where she had no purpose.

But she hadn't had a choice.

Choices seemed like things she got less and less these days. She scowled, as she washed her hands, having just finished tending the plant she'd brought from home. It was thriving at least. Soon it would be a proper shrubbery. That at least brought a temporary spark of cheer. Less because she was concerned with landscaping and more because then it would be far more useful. The cheer was short-lived of course. As she recalled what and who was waiting for her.

Another probably burnt or raw meal cooked by an angry man who'd likely already been drinking. Drying her hands, she moved to where meal and husband both waited. Neither particularly appetising in her mind at the moment. Sauntered was a better word. She'd felt his glare as soon as she entered the room. Well so what? What now? Did his sock have a hole and he expected her to darn it? Had he wanted her to cook this meal as if she'd not been cleaning this house all day, when she was quite sure most of the mess and dirt came from him? As though having a penis somehow precluded him from taking any responsibility for what happened within the house. He might have business, but she had things to do as well thank you very much. Just as important.

Still, a part of her wondered if she might not be able to learn just one or two good recipes somewhere. She'd spent most of her own coins seeing to it that she was stocked for her trades in this home, and nothing came for free. It was a problem. You needed coins to learn new skills and yet if you had the coin you'd not need the skills. Perhaps she could find someone to trade with. She had two fairly uncommon skills, literacy and basic medicine, surely she could find some peasant who would teach her how to cook something? Perhaps then Everett wouldn't scowl so...

Seating herself, she took a sip from her wine glass. It likely looked as though she was ignoring Everett. In truth she was trying to find the words to say that would stop his glaring, that would defuse the anger and tension. But she did not know them. The truth was that she sometimes felt she hardly knew this man she'd married. Their willing relationship had been based on the physical. They met, dallied and separated until they came together for another tryst. And it had been.. It had been good. She'd not regretted letting him talk her out of her clothes nor onto her back. But she'd never known him. Not really. Not beyond his ambition and determination. Not beyond the fire his dark eyes could contain. And now they were married and she was living with an angry stranger and didn't know how to make it better.

[Everett Ward]

Silently, he rose from the table. He made no sudden movements, nor anything else to indicate his anger or aggression. Instead, he remained in balance, walking calmly over to the small decanter that held his whisky. Into the glass it went, and he turned back with a full glass, more full than most should be. He stepped to the table, all the while not making eye contact with his wife. As he set the glass on the table and took his seat, he rested his elbows on the table and sighed.

"Ashira..." He sounded defeated before they ever began, and he knew that whatever was about to happen was going to escalate into a screaming match, likely ending with his glass shattered against the wall and angry sex later to calm them down. It was an abusive cycle, mentally, and he knew that. But he also knew that whatever demon was inside him would not allow him to go unpossessed.

"I'm sorry it's not like Mita used to make..." Mita was the servant in the kitchens in the Ward estate. She was a pretty girl, brown hair and curves, but she was as menial as they come. However, she made some of the most fabulous meat dishes, using a knowledge of seasoning that went far beyond anything that Everett could imagine. She could season the beef to have layers of flavor that unwrapped with each bite. She could hide explosions of flavor in the fat... And he could barely cook it to not be tough and chewy.

"It's all we had." Everett would never admit to mediocrity being his best. Not in any facet of his life. He was commanding, smart, sharp... But he did not care for menial tasks. So he did not pursue them. But he would admit neither ignorance nor negligence. He simply would blame the situation, and not himself. "But it will suffice. Perhaps we can visit Oakleigh or Berwick soon... I'm sure you're craving the apple pie..."

Apples grew a-plenty in Oakleigh. Rumor had it that her family had a pie recipe that would shame many of the noble houses of Rynmere's. It was always made from the finest fruit, and through some secret, always seemed warm and gooey, despite how long it had been left to sit.

"Or..." And he realized that she hadn't been responding, just keeping her eyes down on her glass. Rage coiled in his stomach, rearing like a viper to strike at her. His throat closed tightly, making it difficult for him to breathe, and he had to actively relax to make sure he didn't suffocate himself. His hand wrapped tightly around the whisky glass, and a large gulp burned his throat into opening back to its regular size. He wanted to scream at her, to yell, to... cry. He wanted to hold her. And he wanted to hit her. But he knew that any action would exacerbate the mood further.

He glared at her again, this time overtly seething with rage. His knuckles were white as he gripped the glass, which he was quickly draining. His food sat untouched, growing cold. It couldn't make it taste worse... He thought, which only infuriated him more. He had to be here, had to be his own man. But it was horrendous and he knew Ashira hated him. And he wanted her to love him, and since she didn't, he was growing to hate her. But he could never truly hate her.

He reached a hand out and set it on hers, which she instantly recoiled. Gone was all sentiment of peace then, and Everett hastily shoved his chair back. It flew to the floor with a loud clatter as he towered over her, breathing heavily though his nose, as might an enraged bull. Beet-red was the color of his face as he glared, and the whisky glass had tumbled over, spilling the strong spirit onto the floor.

[Ashira Ward]

She almost looked up when he said her name. In another world she did, and perhaps that would have been the end of it. Perhaps they'd have spoken, communicated, bonded, eaten together and gone to bed happy, united. But not in this world. This world had seen too many fights, this world had taught her not to trust that tone. Internally she was already tensing, waiting for the attack. She almost went on the offensive. Better to fling an accusation at him then to wait and see what she'd done now. But there was the empty glass, now full again. The uncertainty. Better to stay quiet. To not engage.

And it began immediately. Mita. Unseen, her teeth clenched. He'd probably fucked her too, but she'd been part of his household, it was expected, no one had whispered about that. Did he wish his father had forced him to marry Mita instead? She'd do what he said. She'd be a good little wife. She would have cooked his dinner and it would have been delicious. That she, Ashira, who was beautiful and smart and had her own worth dammit, should be thought of as inferior to that empty-headed, docile twit.. Her own rage, hot and sharp started to build. She wasn't some.. some cow, to serve and follow, she was a scalpel, terrible and sharp.

'It's all we had'. So now it was her fault for not contributing enough, for not bringing in enough coins. Most rich mens wives just had to look pretty and smile, but no, not even fulfilling that demeaning purpose was enough. A Ward didn't have belongings after all, a Ward had assets, and any asset not profitable enough was liquidated. She was trying! She'd never had the chance to finish her training with her own family, he'd seen to that. He'd thrown her life of course and now he blamed her for it. She was trying to make coins as a healer, but half trained and competing against all the other healers in the city it was hard. She'd even started scribing for people other than Everett. A task below her. She had her own thoughts, they were worth writing down, she was not an empty room to echo back what someone else said, but she did it anyway. Took small coin to write letter for people who didn't even have all their teeth to send their empty prattle to other people. She'd written letters for sailors to send home to their wives. Some spewed words of devotion even while whores clung to their arms and booze reeked from their pores. But some recounted what had happened, their thoughts, simple as they were, and ended with how they loved and missed their other halves. And Ashira hated them.

How was it fair? Why did her life have to be so broken when it was meant to be so grand? She knew, she knew that she was better than most people, and that she'd not nearly hit her own full potential yet. She strived towards it every day. Why wasn't it enough?

Why wasn't she enough?

No. No she was. She was enough. She wasn't the problem. She blinked, staring at the wine glass, willing away the tears. She would not cry. She would not give him the satisfaction. She hated this city, but she was damned well going to succeed. Her name would be known. That would show him. He would hate that more than anything. She would throw herself back into her studies and experimentations, and she would make a name for herself. She would continue to support him, to be a model wife in public. Everyone would know her, while he stayed floundering in his fathers shadow. That would be the cruelest revenge she could have.

For a moment she thought she might have misread him, misunderstood, when he talked about visiting home. As set as she was on succeeding here, as stubborn as she was, she was also desperately homesick, but travel was so expensive, and the money they also lost in time, by not seeing to their own work while traveling.. She'd not expected to see home for several arcs at least.

And then of course he threw the craving comment at her. As if she could will an heir into her womb! It was at least as much his fault as hers! In fact, his family was the one with illness in it, look at his sister! Her own was healthy! She was certain she was not barren! And that was all that really mattered wasn't it. Neither he nor his hallowed patriarch cared about her or who she was or what was in her head. She was a broodmare, and one of lesser pedigree than they'd wanted. Well so sorry for not popping out triplets immediately! In her rage and shame, she half considered running to one of the taverns he loved so and spreading her legs for whoever walked past. Surely one of them could manage what he couldn't since that was so important to him!

In that moment he reached out and put his hand over hers, making a mockery of affection. She tore her hand away from him. Immediately he was up, his chair hitting the floor, as he loomed over her. Just as quickly she was on her feet. He still towered over her, but at least it was more tolerable, not quite as oppressive as when she'd been sitting. At least now she felt like she could flee, if it came to that. Not that she would. Where would she go? Who would she turn to? Walk home alone, across all of Rynmere with nothing? And for what. To beg her parents to take her back in? They likely would, but the shame made it unthinkable.

"What?!"

She shrieked at him. Fear and unhappiness translating itself into anger.

"What more do you want from me?! What more can you take?! Am I not being a good enough wife for you?! FINE. HERE!"

She threw herself down, scrubbing at the spilled whiskey with the hem of her own dress. It would likely stain, if she didn't rip it herself in her frenzied actions, and the truth was that they probably couldn't replace it, but that didn't matter.

[Everett Ward]

Knuckles whitened on the table as she exploded to her feet. He made no other reaction than to grip the table, and the only movement from him was his eyes. Full of malice, they followed her as she antagonized him, dropping down and scrubbing the mess with her dress. At the same time, he caught a glimpse of the soft flesh of her thighs, bared now and in deep contrast with the rage that boiled in him.

Lust aside, Everett knew that she was spiting him. And the anger inside him roiled, reaching a boiling point that threatened to cause so much heat through his pores that he burned her alive where she lied. Her voice grated on him, and he gritted his teeth to keep from reflexively attacking her. Being aggressive was in his nature, and as angry as she made him, he did not want to physically harm her. And so, instead, he reached a powerful arm out and seized the back of her dress, lifting her and the material from the floor.

He lifted her high enough to make her land on her feet, and he grabbed her shoulders forcefully. With a sharp shake, he stopped her movement, holding her in place as he leveled his eyes with hers. The smoldering coals stared deep into her soul, unblinking and unmoving. With a cold, dead tone, his barely-audible voice seeped into her ears.

"I want you to be the woman I laid with back home. The girl who smiled secretly at me from another room. The girl who stole kisses from me in the hallways at dusk. I want you to be the Ashira that didn't frown at the morning dew."

And his visage softened. He could remember that Ashira, the Thorn that pricked his heart. He'd never been able to resist her, physically, and he found that he loved her intelligence and prudence. And as much as he loved it, he hated it. It made her strong and wise, but also defiant and spiteful. And as much as he liked her rebellions, when it came to his word, it was law. And she knew it.

The Wards were powerful. They had been, long before Everett was a thought. And he was born into power, able to have anything he wanted, whenever he chose. As a young man, he could have any woman he chose. His father wanted him to pick high, but he could bed any wench or whore he wanted. He could fuck until his manhood fell off, so long as he produced an heir with a woman of status before he did so. But he chose not to. He chose to marry Ashira, not in short part because of her spectacular ability between the sheets.

"And should I tell you to become her again, you will. Should I tell you to rip off that soiled rag and spread yourself for me, you will. Should I demand that you pretend to be any serving bitch or faceless whore I so fancy, by the fucking Immortals you will. Because when you became my wife, you chose to do as I say."

He did not seem angry anymore. More assertive, like he would be in a business negotiation. He looked at the overturned glasses on the table, and then to Ashira's dress, then back to the ruined meal. With a sigh, he shoved over the table, towering once again, his broad shoulders obscuring her view of the window behind him.

"Go change. We can go to the tavern for a true meal. I'll clean this up." His voice was soft, different... Tender. There was something forced in it, like he was covering his shame. She had come to know the mood swing well, and knew that it was best to comply with his demands rather than rebel. At least he offered to clean up while she redressed. He didn't do it often.

[Ashira Ward]

Her throat closed and her chest tightened as the dress around her grew tight and then began lifting her from the ground. Everett was much stronger than she was, even had she been inclined she would not have been able to resist him, and she was not. There was no point physically fighting with him, she would never win, and she did not want to see what he could, no, would do if she truly goaded him. Once deposited on her feet she moved to step back and away from him, but he took her by the shoulders and gave a sharp jerk like a hound seizing and shaking it's prey. Though much of her wanted to look away, she forced herself to meet his eyes as he spoke.

It was an interesting dichotomy. The way she depended on his control but also hated it, tried to destroy it at every turn. He could have been an actual threat to her, easily. She could have been wearing blackened eyes and the bruised imprints of his hands every day, and no one would stop him or say anything. Such was a husbands right. There was no divorce, there was no protection unless your family had influence. Only Everett himself held him back. She should have been grateful. But she felt so out of control, every day, so blown immediately and radically by every wind, by every whim, by every event that came one after the other until her head spun and she was overwhelmed and wanted to rage or cry or lie down and wait for death. And he always seemed so in control. So unaffected. And she hated it. She wanted to make him feel what she felt. She wanted to destroy his control. To send him spiralling so he could understand. So they would be in the same place instead of on either side of a seemingly unsurpassable gulf. It was stupid and self-destructive and she did it anyway. It never occured to her that just as an outsider who saw her saw a mask of iron control regardless of how she felt inside, so too might Everett be the same. It had been so long since they'd related well to each other though.

She wasn't untouched by his words. Innocence likely wasn't a word that could be implied to a secret tryst. Still, what they'd had had been simple and sweet and easy. At worst there'd been inconveniences when they couldn't meet as planned, or they had to scramble as someone unexpected approached. But it had all been positive. She had been happy every time she saw him. Every kiss was as sweet as the first and last. To touch her fingertips to his skin and feel the heat of him had been all that she'd wanted. To feel his weight upon her.

For a moment her sharp edges were gone. For a moment she was only small and lost and unhappy. Lonely and desperate to throw herself into the arms of the man that she still loved, even when she hated him. Desperate to feel his lips and to hold him tight and close through the night because she might lose him again to the angry stranger in the morning.

But neither of them could ever admit true fault. Defeat. Concede truly to the other. Everett continued and she stiffened. Part of her responded in spite of herself. Part of her was aroused. She had always liked his confidence. His assertiveness. But she was also terribly, terribly jealous. The reference to Mita earlier, combined with his statement that she would pretend to be whoever he said was like a slap in the face. Her fears confirmed. To her the message was clear. He did not want her. He wanted someone else, but was stuck with her, so she would be convenient and she would let him pretend to be with who he really wanted.

And Ashira would rather die.

Her rage was back, but it had gone from hot to cold in an instant. This wasn't the heartbroken woman, this was the poisoner. The easiest course of action was to do as he wanted. He'd get distracted by business within a trial anyway and she would be forgotten, a ghost once more. Plus at least she would get to have a decent meal. She could take revenge for that comment later, when he didn't expect it. Any drink, any morsel of food, any surface he might touch with his skin, all these things could be the couriers of her disapproval, and there was something immensely comforting in that thought.

Eyes lowered demurely, head nodded and her upper body inclined slightly. A quasi-bow. Acquiescence. Submission. Backing away, before turning to walk to their shared room, where her clothes, and his, were kept. Closing the door behind her.

And with a sneer through the wood that he couldn't see, in a whiskey soaked dress and bare feet, she let herself out her own bedroom window. She didn't know where she was going. She hadn't really had time to come up with a plan. She had no friends to go and stay with. No job to retreat to. But time was of the essence, and so she moved with certainty that the rational part of her didn't feel, but the instinctual part supplied on cue, towards Low-town.

[Everett Ward]

Everett was silent as he moved around the table, cleaning up the physical disaster their argument had caused. There was liquor on the table and floor, even though Ashira's dress absorbed a great deal of it. Bits of food and wine mingled at the edge of the table, where the wine dripped in blood-like droplets onto the hard floor. Everett grabbed a rag and began to wipe it up, scrubbing to try and take some of the red stain from the wood of the table and floor.

Once he'd taken care of that, he took the dishes to the washbasin. He scraped the remaining food through the window, onto the garden just below it. The soil could use the rotting food, and it saved him having to deal with any scavengers that came to the home looking for meal scraps. After he did so, he refilled his glass of whisky and sat at the newly-cleaned table, his dark eyes watching the door from which Ashira would merge.

And he waited. Nearly ten bits passed before he stood silently, walking quietly over the hardwood floors to press his ear to the door. The room beyond was as silent as a tomb, and he furrowed his brow. Understandably, if she'd already dressed, he would not hear her shuffling. But for no sound...

He tried the handle and the door was locked. With a grunt, he slammed into it with his shoulder, once and again. It didn't budge. The only thing in the damn house that works as it should... The thought would have brought him a smile in a different circumstance. At the time, though, Everett just grew more angry and frustrated. He took three steps back from the door, and then stepped in and kicked it. After the third knee-jarring impact, the door burst open. Everett stepped inside with rage in his heart, and the room was empty, a mausoleum to his frustration.

He scanned the room with the eyes of a hawk, and found quickly the window ajar. He stuck his head out of it and looked both ways before shoving from the frame in fury. He grabbed his coat off the rack by the door and stormed from the abode. His pace was quick and frantic, something coiling in his chest and preparing to strike out at anyone who crossed his path. He was used to frustration and anger, even sadness, but what boiled in his chest cavity was a blackness he'd yet to experience, and it was the closest thing to a murderous rage he'd ever known.

His fists hurt from clenching them so hard. He forced himself to unfurl them, stretch the fingers and allow the blood to flow to the extremities. The night was cool, but not cold, so he could keep his hands from his pockets, and his hands swung against the wind. Even in the waning light, his hands were red, and he kept flexing them. He couldn't stop, couldn't quell the anger.

He'd known she had been unhappy. He knew she was jealous, and fearful of infidelity, and perhaps even a little homesick. He knew that she resented him, and wished things were different. But he had no clue that she would try to leave him, that she would leave him alone. As much as they fought, as much as they screamed and argued and didn't speak to each other for trials at a time, Everett loved her. He loved her as the maiden she was when he met her, and the hard and solid woman she'd grown to become. Their shortcomings as a couple aside, they were strong and strong-willed. They worked well together, and he'd thought that it would have been enough, even if it wasn't easy.

I guess I was wrong. His frantic pace barely matched the rate at which his thoughts were moving. He was cycling between panic, despair and fury, at a pace so rapid that even he could barely tell which was which. He was completely unsure if he was going to embrace her or bash her skull in when he found her, and each passing trill made him more unsure of the outcome. She had a good lead on him, but he was tireless and fueled by aggression. He'd made progress, and it was only a bit or two more before he could see her a hundred yards in front of him. His face set into an iron mask as he quickened his pace, despite the burning in his lungs. He was so close... She wouldn't elude him now.

He came upon her like a shadow, suddenly appearing at her back. He was breathing heavily and quickly, though from anger, proximity to her or exertion, it was hard to say. Iron hands wrapped around her shoulders, and he spun her quickly, likely causing a degree of discomfort in her neck. He stared into her eyes, his own welling with tears of anger and... relief. He was relieved to have found her, and though his insides were erupting with negative emotion, he pulled her in and wrapped her in the hardest hug he'd ever given her. He wanted to kill her, to chain her to the bed and never allow her to leave again... But she was safe. They could deal with the rest later. For now, he buried her head in his chest and just held her, her head rocking as his chest heaved. He kissed the top of her head, but remained motionless and silent after.

[Ashira Ward]

It had seemed like a good idea at first. He thought he'd left her with only two options. Submit to him and do as he wanted, admitting that she was less than him, that he controlled her, could force her to do as he pleased, that she might as well have been the hired help, stupid and obedient. Or disobey, scream at him, lock herself in their room. His room really, for the house was in his name of course. And she would still lose, because he was stronger. Because he could force her to do what he wanted. So the outcome would be the same, it would just take longer to get there. And they'd both known it. That had been the worst part. He knew the options he gave her were no options, and still he spoke of her choices, as if she had any. She knew that what she'd chosen wasn't wise. She couldn't see an endpoint that came out in her favour but.. But it least it hadn't been in the script. At least it had been something that she chose. Even if it was a stupid choice, it was her stupid choice.

The first sign she'd made a mistake had come from her own feet. She'd never gone without footwear in her life. She had no calluses to protect her. She had been trying to move with speed, but the further she got, the tenderer her soles were, and the rougher the paving stones got. Lowtown might not have been the best choice. She'd thought she'd have the best chance of losing him, of showing him that she was an individual, that she decided her own actions that way, but the quality of everything, even the streets, went down the further into lowtown you got.

"Oi! You lost?"

She started, as strange hands found their way to her hips, and the rancid breath of some man she didn't know warmed her cheek, unpleasantly moist. She might have thought in the heat of the moment of being unfaithful to Everett, and certainly this was an opportunity to find someone who would give her somewhere to stay and look after her for a while. Was it so much to give up in return for that certainty? It was just one small thing.

No.

"How's about I-"

"No! Get off me!"

She wormed around in his arms, her hand coming up to push a stubbled face away.

"Feck, all right then! Don't need t'get-"

She was already gone though, dashing away, wincing as she stepped on rough stones, but afraid to stop. A few bits later she slipped on something and fell, scraping her knee and elbow. She was up in a trill, looking to see if anyone had noticed, if anyone else was going to come and threaten her. Or offer to help. There were people around, but they pointedly looked away. It was then that she wondered what they must think of her. An attractive woman in good clothes but with no shoes, and if they got close enough reeking of alcohol. They'd almost certainly think her a prostitute. Maybe a slave. What if someone called the guards? Did she really want to explain herself?

Her steps slowed, as uncertainty flooded her. It was dark here. There were fewer streetlamps or torches lit. The people still out and about took on a more menacing cast. This was lowtown after all. Any of them could be criminals. And if they weren't already, if they found out who she was, or more specifically who she was married to they'd almost certainly be willing to become one. As she slowed, as her steps became more hesitant, she did draw more attention. Realizing this, she raised her chin and strode on. Or at least she tried. Her feet felt bruised, and though she tried to project confidence, her steps were ginger.

What was she going to do? She was afraid. She wanted to go home even if it was only to the troubled one here in Andaris. But pride wouldn't let her just turn around. She had nowhere to go. No one to turn to. She'd not even brought the few coins she had left, she'd just gone. What was she going to do?

The people of Lowtown were for the most part, honest, hardworking folks. Now more than ever after the Civil War they were more likely to band together than to turn on each other. Ashira did not know that though. She did not know them. They were all unknowns. Too loud, too smelly, they got too close. Oakleigh was different. There were fewer people. She knew almost all of them. In the country everyone had room. They didn't crowd on top of each other, they didn't yell over each other. The people of the city, though they were meant to be more cosmopolitan, more refined, instead seemed more akin to beasts to her. Alien and dangerous.

She was not one who was used to tracking, or to evading. She didn't notice or hear him until he was upon her. She was whipped around, quickly enough that she bit her own tongue, tasting blood. The little thread of fear rose into panic, until she recognized the dark eyes staring into her own.

Everett. The panic subsided, and though she knew he might be angry enough to raise his hands to her, she was glad he'd found her. She felt safe again. Even if she had to weather whatever he did, most of her did not believe he would really hurt her, unlike the rest of the world. She was surprised and.. and ashamed to see the tears in his eyes. She had not thought he felt enough about her in one way or the other to be moved to tears, not anymore. She hadn't even known if he'd bother to come after her.

But he had.

Relief welled up in her as he pulled her in, uncomfortably tightly, but she'd not have told him to let go even if she thought he would listen. He had come for her. And not.. Not like an angry master come to fetch a wayward dog. He still cared, at least a little. Perhaps he didn't wish she was someone else. That would.. that would be good to believe.

Realizing she'd been holding her breath since he grabbed her, she inhaled with a gasp, and wrapped her own arms around him. She'd been wrong. She knew what she'd done had been stupid. She knew. He might let her stay silent. But. But maybe it was the silences that had brought them here. Would it be so terrible? If she said what they already both knew? At least with him holding her as tightly as he was, with his warm breath on her head, at least she would not need to look him in the eye when she said it.

Fingers held him a little tighter, her body though desperately clinging to him was stiff.

"I was afraid. I want to go home Everett."

No, that wasn't quite right. They took so many jabs at each other he might misunderstand.

"Our home. Please?"

[Everett Ward]

”As you wish, my Thorn.”

He clutched her as if she would dissipate into steam in his grasp. He wouldn’t let her go, not when he almost lost her. She’d left him, and he was angry, but his relief at finding her was overwhelming. And she melted his rage with one simple word: Our.

He pushed her out and looked at her, how frail and weak she looked. She was terrified, and his masculine instincts kicked in. He picked her up in his arms, carrying her as if she were nothing more than a bolt of cloth. She was heavier than nothing, but his adrenaline was pumping and he barely noticed her weight. The whole time he carried her, he remained silent however.

The trek was slow going, her trembling in his grip. He refused to let her down, though the muscles in his arms screamed at him. He breathed heavily, laboring through each breath as he placed one foot in front of the other. His lungs burned, but he pushed through the pain. What carrying her meant was more important than the weakness he would feel in his limbs.

Their house was a welcome sight nonetheless. He carried her to the door, had to let her down to unlock it. As he slid the heavy metal key into the door, he walked her through it. And suddenly, he was overwhelmed. He spun her around where they stood, grabbing the sides of her face with powerful hands. He tilted her head back and planted his lips on her, kissing her and pushing her against the table. An errant glass flew to the floor and shattered, reminiscent of their fight, but Everett ignored it. He lifted her by her thighs and set her on the table, fingers tangled in her hair as his tongue danced around her mouth.

His heart was pounding, and all the fear and anger he felt at her attempted escape was returning. His face flushed as he stopped to breathe, and his dark orbs burned with a passion she’d not seen in trials. Without asking, powerful arms lifted her from the table, securing her lithe legs around his waist as he carried her to the bedroom. He kicked the door open, slamming it back against the wall as he carried her to the bedroom. The bed bounced against her weight thrown on it. He clenched his jaw, staring holes through her.

His hands grasped at her dress, and he yanked it off her over head. Within seconds, he was undressed and the two of them were looking at each other. A growl escaped his lips as he pounced onto her on the bed, and yanked the heavy wool blanket over the two of them. There was fire, and it ignited the both of them. The rest of the night passed in grunts and moans, and the light shone through the window before either knew it.

[Golem]

Rewards

Name:

Ashira

Knowledge:

Discipline: Hiding your Anger
Discipline: Controlling Tears
Medicine: Clean is Good
Seduction: Kissing your Husband
Surgery: Clean is Good
Everett: Doesn't stoop to Hitting You
Everett: Assertive
Everett: Saviour

Loot:

None

Injuries:

Scrapes and Bruises, nothing major

Fame:

None

Story:

5/5

Collaboration:

5/5

Structure:

5/5

- - -

Name:

Everett

Knowledge:

Cooking: Bean Stew
Cooking: Grilled Steak
Intimidation: Towering over someone
Unarmed: Breaking Down a Door
Ashira: Herbalist
Ashira: Knows Poison
Ashira: Needs your Child
Ashira: Determined and Rebellious
Ashira: Damned Good in Bed

Loot:

None

Injuries:

None

Fame:

None

Story:

5/5

Collaboration:

5/5

Structure:

5/5

- - -

Comments:

This was a really well written thread!

I'm looking forward to reading the next one from you guys. I noticed some very minor structural mistakes from both of you (has instead of as, or using commas oddly), but not anywhere near enough to take off points.

This is a weird, parasitic relationship on both of their sides, and you both did a great job of writing from your own perspective.

If you feel I've missed anything or if you have questions about your review, please don't hesitate to send me a quick PM. Thank you!