Hermes realizes after what feels like a small eternity that he had never responded to her calling his name; rather, his heart had responded, fairly leaping in his chest as all the feelings he’d been trying to push aside had swelled up all around him, sweeping him away on their fierce current, temporarily robbing him of the ability to speak.
When concern begins to shade the curiosity on her face, he struggles for an instant and then finally finds his voice. Just as she had, he says only one word: her name. However, while hers had been a question, uncertainty and slight surprise edging those two short syllables as she looked up at him, his is a statement, fixed and definite. Shaking his head at himself, he reaches up to remove his mask, and his hand goes still, then curls in on itself as it hovers beside one cheek on finding that, in his haste to escape his thoughts of the very person he’s now facing down, he must have left it in his room--a thoughtless oversight, the sort of which he is not often prone to. Swallowing hard, he forces more words out, feeling terribly, wonderfully exposed as he offers her a tentative smile.
“...May we talk a moment? Again? I...am sorry, to take advantage of your kindness thus, but…”
She gives him a smile in return along with a nod of agreement; but Hermes feels his own smile falter and fade as his eyes are once again drawn to the flowers at her feet, then his own, to the mutual truths they represent. He sinks to one knee before the scarlet-hued blossoms, marveling a bit at how steadfastly they retain their color--not even the uncertainty and self-loathing he feels are strong enough to blot out the other emotions these plants can read in his heart.
Quiet footsteps approach, but he doesn’t look up, knowing that it’s her, watching her out of the corners of his eyes, a glimpse that only whets his appetite further rather than sating it. Again he marvels at her strength, at her confidence and poise: had he not seen the flowers glowing at her feet, never would he have guessed at her feelings. She doesn’t say anything--overall, she’s very quiet. It’s a typical mannerism of hers that he’s noticed, the way she spends the majority of her time watching and listening, though she’s also plainly not afraid to speak up when it suits her, so bold even as to make playful jabs at the honorable but often-testy Emet-Selch himself. Still, for the most part actions seem to speak louder than words where she’s concerned, and that’s what she chooses for the moment, glancing over at Hermes before kneeling alongside him, examining the flowers herself before angling an inquisitive look his way.
...She is so beautiful, and feeling those large, lovely eyes rest on him both steadies and shakes him to his core in turns. He lets his eyes fall closed, shutting out the sight of her kneeling there within easy arm’s reach, so trustingly close. If she seems bothered or in any way ruffled by his proximity, she does not show it, though by now he doesn’t expect otherwise.
She is patient as well as kind, for she does not press him, seemingly content to simply crouch there at his side, enjoying the night breeze, the gentle scent of the Elpis flowers, and, presumably, his company. He feels something akin to contentment himself, though there is an ache beneath it, a yearning for something else, something more. He longs to move closer to her, and at the same time, to pull away, to maintain a careful distance between, lest he...overstep.
He swallows hard again and then speaks, hoping that the conversation he’d requested of her might divert him from such impure thoughts.
“I told you earlier that my meeting with Emet-Selch was done, and that we had come to a decision. It was decided that I should accept the position, though I had agreed only reluctantly…at least until afterwards. When you and Meteion showed me that I am not alone.”
Easing his eyes open, he turns his head slightly, offering her a small smile that he can sense is burdened with far more sadness than he’d intended. But what does that matter, really? There is no mask to shield him from her sight any longer, neither the literal mask that he’d left in his room, nor the metaphysical one that he wears for everyone else.
“For if you were created by Azem...then perhaps Azem herself might understand me as well.”
She meets his gaze evenly, though closely as he’s watching, he can read the flicker of--something in her calm expression. Is it...uncertainty? Guilt? But what does a familiar have to feel guilty about?
After taking a moment to weigh her words, she murmurs a reply, the pair of questions she lays before him tentative yet ambiguous.
“...And what if I wasn’t created by Azem, exactly? What then?”
It isn’t the sort of question one asks unless it’s actually true; intelligent as he is, Hermes knows that immediately. But, then...if she is not Azem’s familiar, then to whom does she belong? Or is she really even a familiar at all? Thin as her aether is, she must be, surely...and yet...
“Then I will still accept the post, and still hope to find understanding in some form from Azem. It is clear from Hythlodaeus and Emet-Selch’s behavior that you are linked to her in some way...though if not as a familiar, then I know not how.”
She doesn’t explain herself, as he’d hoped she would, though the way she bites her lip and looks down suggests that she dearly wishes to, but cannot for some outside reason that is not fully her own. He wants to know, wants to understand her the same way that she had granted him understanding; but he also recalls the gentleness in the way she didn’t press him at the start of this conversation, and his heart tells him that gentleness is the correct approach at this time. As much apprehension and dread as his heart gives him, he cannot seem to help following it, regardless of where it leads.
To do anything else would be to be untrue to himself. And while Hermes can and will lie to others, mostly for their own sake, he cannot lie to himself. Not now, not in regards to this, to her.
“...The--the Elpis flowers,” he finds himself stammering, an awkward attempt to shift the conversation elsewhere, to ease this strange guilt she carries--though he’d been grasping at straws, and this topic of conversation is not truly one he wants to explore. “Have you ever known them to turn such a color before?”
He sees her look up, studying the flowers once again, then shake her head before looking to him expectantly for an answer.
“Neither have I,” he admits, which isn’t untrue, though it’s also not telling her everything he knows. “As for what it means, I...I think sharing that particular knowledge would only make things...complicated.”
The smile she gives him is impish and captivating, her tone so light and playful that he nearly wonders why he’s worried about how she might react to the truth. “That bad, is it?”
He huffs out a laugh that’s mingled with a sigh, bowing his head and hunching his shoulders, because she is so bright, so warm and close, and it is so very hard not to reach for her hand. “No, not...in as much. I simply do not think that I possess the strength to...”
To bear up under those eyes, if they shone with the same sort of desire as they had before, when she’d first seen his face. To stop himself from giving in, if she said that she wanted him as well.
Initially, he had knelt to examine the flowers more closely--but it was also an attempt to control himself, to keep him from noticing yet again how small she was compared to him, how very easy it would be to-
He stiffens slightly when she pushes back up onto her feet, wondering if he’s somehow offended her with this lack of clarification, or if perhaps she’s simply grown weary and wishes to return to her room.
Before he can draw breath to ask, she’s moved closer, and as if watching it happen in slow motion, he sees her arms come up to wrap around his shoulders in a careful embrace. She leaves him plenty of time to object or flinch away; but he does neither, honestly too taken aback by her impulsive action to react in any appreciable way--if individuality is frowned upon by his society, public displays of affection are nearly unheard of...though that is plainly not the case in hers, wherever she might be from. At first, there’s tension running through every muscle of his large frame, but there is no one here to see and disapprove, and before long Hermes finds himself relaxing into the warmth and compassion in her touch, like ice melting in the sun’s heat.
She’s definitely taking advantage of his current kneeling position--had he been standing, she never could have reached his shoulders--but he can’t remember the last time anyone had simply held him like this, and he can’t bring himself to do anything but rest the side of his head against her chest and soak in the scent and heat of her, the feel of her arms around him solid and safe.
...Now that he thinks on it, Meteion had done something like this before. In an attempt to comfort him, she had stroked his hair until it was thoroughly disheveled...but this is like, and yet entirely unlike that experience.
Like, and yet entirely unlike, particularly when he feels her shift slightly, his eyes coming open (he hadn’t even realized that he’d closed them) to catch part of the movement as she leans forward, leans down, and...presses a soft, lingering kiss to the crown of his head.
It is too much to bear, and yet at the same time, it is not nearly enough to satisfy him, and the ragged, shuddering breath he draws in through his mouth is loud as a thunderclap in the otherwise silent and peaceful night. He feels her go still, hesitating, then she starts to pull away, and he can’t help it, can’t help reflexively catching at one of her arms, grasping at her like a man drowning.
“No,” he gasps, not caring how rough, how raw, how tremulous his voice sounds. “Please...just for a little while longer...”
She subsides at that--if anything, she holds him closer, and he lets his eyes slide shut again, his chest feeling so tight that Hermes struggles to breathe, even as his heart soars as high as the avian concepts in which he takes such joy. The hand on her arm loosens but lingers, the feel of her soft skin beneath his fingertips tantalizing, and he can’t bring himself to pull away.
“Take as long as you need,” she murmurs, and his fingers contract around her arm ever so slightly in response, a detail she certainly doesn’t miss. “You’re not alone.”
The way she pauses then is almost imperceptible, but it’s there, and they both notice; then she adds even more quietly, with a return of that previous guilt and something like contrition:
Prompt #11: Free Prompt - Embrace | ✧ Hermes -> f(Miqo'te)!WoL ✧ | EW SPOILERS FOR DAYS, YO
When concern begins to shade the curiosity on her face, he struggles for an instant and then finally finds his voice. Just as she had, he says only one word: her name. However, while hers had been a question, uncertainty and slight surprise edging those two short syllables as she looked up at him, his is a statement, fixed and definite. Shaking his head at himself, he reaches up to remove his mask, and his hand goes still, then curls in on itself as it hovers beside one cheek on finding that, in his haste to escape his thoughts of the very person he’s now facing down, he must have left it in his room--a thoughtless oversight, the sort of which he is not often prone to. Swallowing hard, he forces more words out, feeling terribly, wonderfully exposed as he offers her a tentative smile.
“...May we talk a moment? Again? I...am sorry, to take advantage of your kindness thus, but…”
She gives him a smile in return along with a nod of agreement; but Hermes feels his own smile falter and fade as his eyes are once again drawn to the flowers at her feet, then his own, to the mutual truths they represent. He sinks to one knee before the scarlet-hued blossoms, marveling a bit at how steadfastly they retain their color--not even the uncertainty and self-loathing he feels are strong enough to blot out the other emotions these plants can read in his heart.
Quiet footsteps approach, but he doesn’t look up, knowing that it’s her, watching her out of the corners of his eyes, a glimpse that only whets his appetite further rather than sating it. Again he marvels at her strength, at her confidence and poise: had he not seen the flowers glowing at her feet, never would he have guessed at her feelings. She doesn’t say anything--overall, she’s very quiet. It’s a typical mannerism of hers that he’s noticed, the way she spends the majority of her time watching and listening, though she’s also plainly not afraid to speak up when it suits her, so bold even as to make playful jabs at the honorable but often-testy Emet-Selch himself. Still, for the most part actions seem to speak louder than words where she’s concerned, and that’s what she chooses for the moment, glancing over at Hermes before kneeling alongside him, examining the flowers herself before angling an inquisitive look his way.
...She is so beautiful, and feeling those large, lovely eyes rest on him both steadies and shakes him to his core in turns. He lets his eyes fall closed, shutting out the sight of her kneeling there within easy arm’s reach, so trustingly close. If she seems bothered or in any way ruffled by his proximity, she does not show it, though by now he doesn’t expect otherwise.
She is patient as well as kind, for she does not press him, seemingly content to simply crouch there at his side, enjoying the night breeze, the gentle scent of the Elpis flowers, and, presumably, his company. He feels something akin to contentment himself, though there is an ache beneath it, a yearning for something else, something more. He longs to move closer to her, and at the same time, to pull away, to maintain a careful distance between, lest he...overstep.
He swallows hard again and then speaks, hoping that the conversation he’d requested of her might divert him from such impure thoughts.
“I told you earlier that my meeting with Emet-Selch was done, and that we had come to a decision. It was decided that I should accept the position, though I had agreed only reluctantly…at least until afterwards. When you and Meteion showed me that I am not alone.”
Easing his eyes open, he turns his head slightly, offering her a small smile that he can sense is burdened with far more sadness than he’d intended. But what does that matter, really? There is no mask to shield him from her sight any longer, neither the literal mask that he’d left in his room, nor the metaphysical one that he wears for everyone else.
“For if you were created by Azem...then perhaps Azem herself might understand me as well.”
She meets his gaze evenly, though closely as he’s watching, he can read the flicker of--something in her calm expression. Is it...uncertainty? Guilt? But what does a familiar have to feel guilty about?
After taking a moment to weigh her words, she murmurs a reply, the pair of questions she lays before him tentative yet ambiguous.
“...And what if I wasn’t created by Azem, exactly? What then?”
It isn’t the sort of question one asks unless it’s actually true; intelligent as he is, Hermes knows that immediately. But, then...if she is not Azem’s familiar, then to whom does she belong? Or is she really even a familiar at all? Thin as her aether is, she must be, surely...and yet...
“Then I will still accept the post, and still hope to find understanding in some form from Azem. It is clear from Hythlodaeus and Emet-Selch’s behavior that you are linked to her in some way...though if not as a familiar, then I know not how.”
She doesn’t explain herself, as he’d hoped she would, though the way she bites her lip and looks down suggests that she dearly wishes to, but cannot for some outside reason that is not fully her own. He wants to know, wants to understand her the same way that she had granted him understanding; but he also recalls the gentleness in the way she didn’t press him at the start of this conversation, and his heart tells him that gentleness is the correct approach at this time. As much apprehension and dread as his heart gives him, he cannot seem to help following it, regardless of where it leads.
To do anything else would be to be untrue to himself. And while Hermes can and will lie to others, mostly for their own sake, he cannot lie to himself. Not now, not in regards to this, to her.
“...The--the Elpis flowers,” he finds himself stammering, an awkward attempt to shift the conversation elsewhere, to ease this strange guilt she carries--though he’d been grasping at straws, and this topic of conversation is not truly one he wants to explore. “Have you ever known them to turn such a color before?”
He sees her look up, studying the flowers once again, then shake her head before looking to him expectantly for an answer.
“Neither have I,” he admits, which isn’t untrue, though it’s also not telling her everything he knows. “As for what it means, I...I think sharing that particular knowledge would only make things...complicated.”
The smile she gives him is impish and captivating, her tone so light and playful that he nearly wonders why he’s worried about how she might react to the truth. “That bad, is it?”
He huffs out a laugh that’s mingled with a sigh, bowing his head and hunching his shoulders, because she is so bright, so warm and close, and it is so very hard not to reach for her hand. “No, not...in as much. I simply do not think that I possess the strength to...”
To bear up under those eyes, if they shone with the same sort of desire as they had before, when she’d first seen his face. To stop himself from giving in, if she said that she wanted him as well.
Initially, he had knelt to examine the flowers more closely--but it was also an attempt to control himself, to keep him from noticing yet again how small she was compared to him, how very easy it would be to-
He stiffens slightly when she pushes back up onto her feet, wondering if he’s somehow offended her with this lack of clarification, or if perhaps she’s simply grown weary and wishes to return to her room.
Before he can draw breath to ask, she’s moved closer, and as if watching it happen in slow motion, he sees her arms come up to wrap around his shoulders in a careful embrace. She leaves him plenty of time to object or flinch away; but he does neither, honestly too taken aback by her impulsive action to react in any appreciable way--if individuality is frowned upon by his society, public displays of affection are nearly unheard of...though that is plainly not the case in hers, wherever she might be from. At first, there’s tension running through every muscle of his large frame, but there is no one here to see and disapprove, and before long Hermes finds himself relaxing into the warmth and compassion in her touch, like ice melting in the sun’s heat.
She’s definitely taking advantage of his current kneeling position--had he been standing, she never could have reached his shoulders--but he can’t remember the last time anyone had simply held him like this, and he can’t bring himself to do anything but rest the side of his head against her chest and soak in the scent and heat of her, the feel of her arms around him solid and safe.
...Now that he thinks on it, Meteion had done something like this before. In an attempt to comfort him, she had stroked his hair until it was thoroughly disheveled...but this is like, and yet entirely unlike that experience.
Like, and yet entirely unlike, particularly when he feels her shift slightly, his eyes coming open (he hadn’t even realized that he’d closed them) to catch part of the movement as she leans forward, leans down, and...presses a soft, lingering kiss to the crown of his head.
It is too much to bear, and yet at the same time, it is not nearly enough to satisfy him, and the ragged, shuddering breath he draws in through his mouth is loud as a thunderclap in the otherwise silent and peaceful night. He feels her go still, hesitating, then she starts to pull away, and he can’t help it, can’t help reflexively catching at one of her arms, grasping at her like a man drowning.
“No,” he gasps, not caring how rough, how raw, how tremulous his voice sounds. “Please...just for a little while longer...”
She subsides at that--if anything, she holds him closer, and he lets his eyes slide shut again, his chest feeling so tight that Hermes struggles to breathe, even as his heart soars as high as the avian concepts in which he takes such joy. The hand on her arm loosens but lingers, the feel of her soft skin beneath his fingertips tantalizing, and he can’t bring himself to pull away.
“Take as long as you need,” she murmurs, and his fingers contract around her arm ever so slightly in response, a detail she certainly doesn’t miss. “You’re not alone.”
The way she pauses then is almost imperceptible, but it’s there, and they both notice; then she adds even more quietly, with a return of that previous guilt and something like contrition:
“I’m here.”