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lady_mabthis didn't actually happen in the episode but Muna made a tweet about it and I was: Inspired
Throndir won’t say that he’s feeling worse, but he’s certainly not feeling better. The food doesn’t satisfy him, and the craving for something more lingers on the back of his tongue. But he holds it together, as they journey through the countryside--past the villa, to the Governor's house.
Through dinner, through the evening bells. There’s only a tinge of that morning’s fear, but Ephrim’s hand in his own, gripped fiercely beneath the table, steadies him.
He doesn’t know how to feel about any of this. About Tabard, about the plants, about this whole place.
At the very end of dinner, Ephrim excuses himself to get some air. His face pale, cheeks flushed, breathing shallow. There’s a surge of panic in Throndir when he wonders if this is the consequence of Ephrim following him into the ocean this morning, but it’s deeper than that.
Throndir waits until the dishes are being cleared before excusing himself as well.
“We’ll come find you when we’re getting ready to leave,” Hadrian says as he takes the path he saw Ephrim disappear moments before. Then, softer, quieter, “Are you sure you don’t want to stay here?”
It’s a curious question, but Throndir manages a smile. “The Lord Baron likes this blue view. Besides, all my stuff is at the Villa. I’ll see you in a bit.” He slips away before Hadrian can press the topic, and follows the easy pull that leads him to Ephrim.
He grips the railing to the balcony with left hand, his right pressed over his nose and mouth as he takes steadying breaths.
Throndir is immediately on edge. “Ephrim, are you—”
The other man lifts his hand from the balcony, though it’s not a warding gesture. Throndir takes it, and steps in to wrap his arms around Ephrim’s waist. The hand slips around the back of his neck, cradling his head in a firm grip.
“I’ll be fine. I just need to rest.”
“You shouldn’t be standing here, you’ll make it worse.”
Ephrim’s hand finally drops from his mouth and he turns in to bury his face in Throndir’s chest. “What, did Highwater and Marigold send you?”
Throndir takes the teasing in stride, and brushes his lips against the ridge of Ephrim’s cheek. “Am I not allowed to worry about you?”
“I’m worried about you, you’re worried about me, and neither of us wants to be the one to recover first.” Ephrim accepts another brush of lips to his cheek before he tilts his head up to catch Throndir’s mouth in a proper kiss. His hand on the back of Throndir’s neck is warm and reassuring. When Ephrim draws back, slowly, letting the kiss linger, there’s an unease to his expression that is hard to interpret. “This is the furthest from me that you’ll be in ten years.”
Something twists in the pit of Throndir’s stomach, and Hadrian’s question flits through his head briefly (are you sure you don’t want to stay here) before he pushes it aside. “I’m not going to be that far.”
“Ten years,” Ephrim repeats, and the thing twists tighter. “You’re not feeling better, and I’m expected to let you out of my sights.”
“You could have spoken up.”
“I didn’t want to sound needy in front of anyone else.”
“Only me?”
“Only ever you.”
Throndir kisses him again, and again--as Ephrim stumbles back, pulling Throndir closer, both hands raking back through Throndir’s hair, Ephrim’s back pressed against the balcony railing.
He can feel that hunger--writhing in his chest, urging him on, craving the comfort that Ephrim’s touch brings. Every inch of him wants, but he knows better.
It’s a tremendous effort, but he pulls back. He reaches back and takes Ephrim’s hands in his own and presses a kiss to the gloved knuckles instead. “I can’t take what you’re offering, Ephrim, you know that.”
“You’ll only get worse.”
“And so will you.”
“I can afford it—”
“No, you can’t,” Throndir says, cutting him off. “We can’t afford having you sick, or worse. Are you going to leave the negotiations to Fero? Or Hadrian?”
Ephrim’s face twists in an annoyed pout, but his shoulders quickly drop in defeat. “You’re being unfair.”
“And you’re being stubborn.”
A laugh escapes Ephrim, and Throndir presses another kiss to his hands. “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”
“Of course I will.”
Ephrim rolls his eyes, but a fond smile plays at the corners of his lips.
“You can punish me for it all later,” Throndir teases, and this time, Ephrim’s laugh is bright and delighted.
Throndir won’t say that he’s feeling worse, but he’s certainly not feeling better. The food doesn’t satisfy him, and the craving for something more lingers on the back of his tongue. But he holds it together, as they journey through the countryside--past the villa, to the Governor's house.
Through dinner, through the evening bells. There’s only a tinge of that morning’s fear, but Ephrim’s hand in his own, gripped fiercely beneath the table, steadies him.
He doesn’t know how to feel about any of this. About Tabard, about the plants, about this whole place.
At the very end of dinner, Ephrim excuses himself to get some air. His face pale, cheeks flushed, breathing shallow. There’s a surge of panic in Throndir when he wonders if this is the consequence of Ephrim following him into the ocean this morning, but it’s deeper than that.
Throndir waits until the dishes are being cleared before excusing himself as well.
“We’ll come find you when we’re getting ready to leave,” Hadrian says as he takes the path he saw Ephrim disappear moments before. Then, softer, quieter, “Are you sure you don’t want to stay here?”
It’s a curious question, but Throndir manages a smile. “The Lord Baron likes this blue view. Besides, all my stuff is at the Villa. I’ll see you in a bit.” He slips away before Hadrian can press the topic, and follows the easy pull that leads him to Ephrim.
He grips the railing to the balcony with left hand, his right pressed over his nose and mouth as he takes steadying breaths.
Throndir is immediately on edge. “Ephrim, are you—”
The other man lifts his hand from the balcony, though it’s not a warding gesture. Throndir takes it, and steps in to wrap his arms around Ephrim’s waist. The hand slips around the back of his neck, cradling his head in a firm grip.
“I’ll be fine. I just need to rest.”
“You shouldn’t be standing here, you’ll make it worse.”
Ephrim’s hand finally drops from his mouth and he turns in to bury his face in Throndir’s chest. “What, did Highwater and Marigold send you?”
Throndir takes the teasing in stride, and brushes his lips against the ridge of Ephrim’s cheek. “Am I not allowed to worry about you?”
“I’m worried about you, you’re worried about me, and neither of us wants to be the one to recover first.” Ephrim accepts another brush of lips to his cheek before he tilts his head up to catch Throndir’s mouth in a proper kiss. His hand on the back of Throndir’s neck is warm and reassuring. When Ephrim draws back, slowly, letting the kiss linger, there’s an unease to his expression that is hard to interpret. “This is the furthest from me that you’ll be in ten years.”
Something twists in the pit of Throndir’s stomach, and Hadrian’s question flits through his head briefly (are you sure you don’t want to stay here) before he pushes it aside. “I’m not going to be that far.”
“Ten years,” Ephrim repeats, and the thing twists tighter. “You’re not feeling better, and I’m expected to let you out of my sights.”
“You could have spoken up.”
“I didn’t want to sound needy in front of anyone else.”
“Only me?”
“Only ever you.”
Throndir kisses him again, and again--as Ephrim stumbles back, pulling Throndir closer, both hands raking back through Throndir’s hair, Ephrim’s back pressed against the balcony railing.
He can feel that hunger--writhing in his chest, urging him on, craving the comfort that Ephrim’s touch brings. Every inch of him wants, but he knows better.
It’s a tremendous effort, but he pulls back. He reaches back and takes Ephrim’s hands in his own and presses a kiss to the gloved knuckles instead. “I can’t take what you’re offering, Ephrim, you know that.”
“You’ll only get worse.”
“And so will you.”
“I can afford it—”
“No, you can’t,” Throndir says, cutting him off. “We can’t afford having you sick, or worse. Are you going to leave the negotiations to Fero? Or Hadrian?”
Ephrim’s face twists in an annoyed pout, but his shoulders quickly drop in defeat. “You’re being unfair.”
“And you’re being stubborn.”
A laugh escapes Ephrim, and Throndir presses another kiss to his hands. “Promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”
“Of course I will.”
Ephrim rolls his eyes, but a fond smile plays at the corners of his lips.
“You can punish me for it all later,” Throndir teases, and this time, Ephrim’s laugh is bright and delighted.
