He snorted and scooched over, making room for her on the bed. The rope frame creaked as their weight resettled. Not the marrying sort had particular connotations in his tired mind. Was Lyric saying that she preferred women? And – Was that even much of a concern in the Marches, where she’d lived? He didn’t know. It was very much so in Tevinter. Tiberius turned his head to the side, watching her.
Yesterday’s anger seemed a distant, insubstantial thing. He’d said such beastly things to her – because he had not known any of this. His fingers curled loosely around her pale and blue veined wrist.
“I was upset when I thought you were complicit. Now I’m—” Tiberius trailed off, skimming his thumb across the satin smoothness of her pulsepoint. If he could only assay the future there … But alas, he was no soothsayer. “Disappointed, perhaps, that you think so little of me. I’m a fucking Magister, Lyric – my pride won’t allow me to be outmaneuvered by a couple broke Orleisan nobles on the very edge of dotage.”
To be perfectly honest, he would have liked to go back and murder them tomorrow. But perhaps they had contingencies in place. Lyric was being irritatingly evasive about who, exactly, she was trying to protect. Not the brother, surely? The Nicolliers had no other children left, to sell or to slaughter – and southern nobles were so precious about first born sons et al..
“But – to minimize risk – I think it would take time to accomplish anything that would free you.” Assuming she would allow him to do anything at all. Kinslaying, even by proxy, was a nasty proposition. Tiberius rolled onto his side, to watch her better. It was somehow stranger and more intimate that way, facing someone in the dark rather than addressing all his thoughts to the rafters.
“I won’t take you back, then. And if you won’t go elsewhere … Do you really mean to go through with this? Marry me?” Suddenly he reached for her left hand, wanting to touch that ugly old family ring.
“I am not that good of a man, I’m afraid. You can have my time, my resources, and my magic for as long as you need. But in return, I must have an heir.
“Otherwise, we part ways in Nevarra and hope a head start is enough.”
@Lyric Oatshield
Yesterday’s anger seemed a distant, insubstantial thing. He’d said such beastly things to her – because he had not known any of this. His fingers curled loosely around her pale and blue veined wrist.
“I was upset when I thought you were complicit. Now I’m—” Tiberius trailed off, skimming his thumb across the satin smoothness of her pulsepoint. If he could only assay the future there … But alas, he was no soothsayer. “Disappointed, perhaps, that you think so little of me. I’m a fucking Magister, Lyric – my pride won’t allow me to be outmaneuvered by a couple broke Orleisan nobles on the very edge of dotage.”
To be perfectly honest, he would have liked to go back and murder them tomorrow. But perhaps they had contingencies in place. Lyric was being irritatingly evasive about who, exactly, she was trying to protect. Not the brother, surely? The Nicolliers had no other children left, to sell or to slaughter – and southern nobles were so precious about first born sons et al..
“But – to minimize risk – I think it would take time to accomplish anything that would free you.” Assuming she would allow him to do anything at all. Kinslaying, even by proxy, was a nasty proposition. Tiberius rolled onto his side, to watch her better. It was somehow stranger and more intimate that way, facing someone in the dark rather than addressing all his thoughts to the rafters.
“I won’t take you back, then. And if you won’t go elsewhere … Do you really mean to go through with this? Marry me?” Suddenly he reached for her left hand, wanting to touch that ugly old family ring.
“I am not that good of a man, I’m afraid. You can have my time, my resources, and my magic for as long as you need. But in return, I must have an heir.
“Otherwise, we part ways in Nevarra and hope a head start is enough.”
@Lyric Oatshield
06-15-2024, 04:15 PM
