The rain had quieted to a soft patter, the storm finally easing with the first light of dawn. Althea lay still, aware of the warmth of Catria beside her, their shared silence feeling strangely peaceful after everything. In the hazy, dim light, she could just make out Catria's profile, her expression softened by something that almost looked like fatigue.
But beneath that calm, a weight pressed on her—like a distant drumbeat, soft but steady, a reminder of where they were going and how little time remained before she would be handed over to her fate. Three weeks left, she thought, a quiet chill settling in her chest. It was such a short time, and yet, each day that passed in Catria's company seemed to pull her deeper into a warmth she hadn't known she craved.
Althea's mind raced with contradictions: the urge to push Catria away, to remind herself that this woman was her captor, her guard—a pawn in the web that would seal her future. Yet, as she lay there in the quiet shelter of Catria's arms, that future felt like a ghost she couldn't outrun.
Could she really let herself feel this closeness, knowing it would soon end? Or was she a fool for holding back, for denying herself what little comfort she could steal before everything was torn away?
Catria shifted, her gaze distant, fixed somewhere past the shelter's low beams, as if her thoughts were miles away. "Sometimes," she spoke, breaking the quiet morning, her words uncharacteristically careful, "stillness feels like a kindness. Especially when… when the past doesn't leave much room for it."
Althea froze, caught between wanting to listen and the creeping urge to retreat, to remind herself of what awaited her if she let herself care. She glanced away, feigning nonchalance even as her heartbeat drummed in her chest. "Is that why you never stop? Always moving, always guarding?" Her voice was soft, probing, trying to find a balance between empathy and the instinct to distance herself before it was too late.
A faint, humorless smile touched Catria's lips. "Moving forward is safer. Looking back—" She paused, the words catching, as if she'd revealed too much, too quickly. "Looking back has its dangers."
The quiet gravity in her tone made Althea's heart tighten. She wanted to press, to ask more, but that flickering sense of doom, of what lay just three weeks ahead, held her tongue. What would it mean if I understood her now? she wondered, a knot forming in her chest.
Could she really allow herself to understand this woman who'd be the last barrier between herself and the fate she dreaded?
"There was… someone," Catria continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "Someone I'd known for years. Someone I trusted enough to believe they could walk beside me. And I thought I was strong enough… to protect them." Her voice dropped, growing so quiet that Althea had to strain to hear her, each word a quiet confession slipping past the guard that Catria kept so carefully in place.
"What happened?" Althea's question was gentle, a mere breath in the stillness.
Catria's gaze fell, her expression tightening. "I looked away, just for a moment. It wasn't even a conscious decision. But that's all it took." Her hands clenched in her lap, knuckles whitening as if she were clinging to something she couldn't quite bear to release. "When I looked back, it was… too late."
Althea's heart clenched at the hollow finality in her words, a rawness that felt all the more painful for its restraint. She could see the faint tremor in Catria's hands, could feel the weight of guilt that the knight carried, woven into every word she hadn't said.
"I don't know what to say," Althea murmured, her voice catching. She reached out before she could second-guess herself, her fingers brushing lightly against Catria's hand—a silent acknowledgment, a quiet offering of comfort she wasn't sure Catria would accept.
Catria didn't pull away. Instead, she stilled, her gaze drifting to their hands, her fingers hesitating before, slowly, she relaxed beneath Althea's touch. They sat like that, the rain a soft murmur around them, the space between them narrowing with every breath they shared.
"You don't have to say anything," Catria replied, her voice low and almost vulnerable, a faint tremor lingering beneath the usual calm. "It's enough that you're listening."
Althea took a slow, measured breath, a tiny war waging within her. Every instinct told her to run, to sever this fragile, tentative bond before it grew beyond her control, before she cared too deeply and risked more pain when the end came. Yet, some defiant part of her held on to this closeness, refusing to break the connection.
They both fell quiet again, the moment stretching as the early light began filtering through the trees outside, casting soft, broken shadows across the floor. There was no need for further words, no need for anything more than the small, shared warmth between them—a warmth that, against all odds, felt more real than the storm that had raged through the night.
Althea knew she couldn't delay what was coming, but for now, in this fragile, stolen moment, she didn't let go.
Althea's heart softened, her fingers lingering against Catria's hand, a silent assurance that she wouldn't turn away. She could see the weight Catria carried, the quiet sorrow etched into her face, and it stirred something deep and unfamiliar within her. The realization unsettled her, but she didn't pull back.
After a long moment, Catria looked up, her gaze meeting Althea's with a raw intensity that made Althea's breath catch. "It's strange," she murmured, her voice almost hesitant. "I've spent years keeping people at a distance… and now, with you…"
She didn't finish the thought, but Althea understood. She felt the vulnerability in the unspoken words, the quiet admission that, despite everything, Catria hadn't been able to keep her out.
Althea's fingers traced a soft, reassuring line across Catria's knuckles, her touch light but unwavering. "You don't have to keep me out," she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. "I'm not here to hurt you."
Catria's hand tightened slightly around hers, a silent acknowledgment, a faint but unmistakable flicker of trust that felt as fragile as it was precious.
"No, but my duty will." Catria admitted softly.
They sat like that, hands entwined, the tension between them shifting from something sharp and guarded to something softer, something neither of them had quite anticipated.
After a moment, Althea spoke again, her voice gentler now, as if coaxing a wound she hadn't meant to touch. "You shouldn't carry that guilt alone, Catria. Whatever happened… it wasn't your fault."
Catria's expression hardened, her jaw tensing. "But it was. I could have prevented it. I should have."
"You're human," Althea murmured, her fingers brushing lightly over Catria's, grounding her in the present. "We all make mistakes, even those of us who pretend to be invincible."
Catria's gaze softened, a flicker of something vulnerable and uncertain lingering in her eyes. For the first time, Althea saw the person behind the armor, the quiet strength tempered by an ache that Catria had long since buried beneath duty and resolve.
They stayed like that, wrapped in silence, neither daring to move, neither willing to break the fragile connection that had formed between them. Althea's hand remained in Catria's, a quiet promise that she wouldn't let go—not now, not while Catria was willing to let her in.
Catria's gaze met hers, something vulnerable lingering there, a hint of surprise in her eyes. "Perhaps," she murmured, her voice a low rasp. "But old habits die hard."
For the first time, Catria wasn't her captor, and Althea wasn't her reluctant charge. They were just two people, bound by the weight of what they'd lost and the quiet hope of something neither dared name.
And in the quiet space they shared, Althea realized that, despite everything, she didn't want to look away.
Not now.
Not ever.
They both fell quiet again, the moment stretching as the early light began filtering through the trees outside, casting soft, broken shadows across the floor. There was no need for further words, no need for anything more than the small, shared warmth between them—a warmth that, against all odds, felt more real than the storm that had raged through the night.