Amavia + Raoul Can't Go Back

The master bedroom isn't as spacious as it could be, but only because it is cluttered with dressers, sidetables, and knick knacks of every sort. The four post bed is only twin sized, mostly so he has an excuse to be pressed up against her at all times. Even now, his arms are around her and his fingers are in her hair. Skin against skin, their bodies are almost glued together by the sweat from a humid Westfall night and the dry, cool morning. He kisses her shoulder and unwraps their legs just so that he can breathe at least a little bit. The gauzy, sheer cream colored curtains hanging from the posts make it hard to see out the windows. The orchard beyond the glass is just a blur of bark and leaves. Outside, he can hear the workers already up and about. It makes him proud of his leisure here with her. It makes him want her even more. "I love you, apple blossom." He whispers against her and the pillows. Here they're safe from demons and killers, buried under nerubian silk and a hand-sewn quilt from her mother.

Though not a lazy girl by nature she is tired from their work. Coffee and adrenaline can only fuel the body for so long till it needs to recover with hours of rest and relaxation. And here, in his arms, is the best, most blissful rest she could ask for. Workers stir outside but the girl in the bed- no, the young -woman- in the bed does nothing more but burrow deeper into the sheets and pull the comforter up to her chin. Amber eyes slowly open and she wraps her arms around his waist as if he’s the same as that stuffed goretusk on her bed in Dalaran. “I love you too, White Knight. My sunshine.” Auburn hair is sleep mussed and her lips part in a yawn that ends in a muted, squeaking sigh. Fingers splay over his chest, over scars she wish she could have prevented and over his heart she wishes to protect for all time. “Is it time to get up now?”

He shivers, the moved blankets letting in just a breath of cold air. The sensation of warmth running back over him makes him smile. He nuzzles hers as his eyes close again. He doesn't want to get up. He doesn't want to break this closeness. Moving gently under the covers, he tries to slip on top of her. Lips kiss her neck and chin. He lets her go just long enough to retuck the quilt around them again, sealing them in with their own body heat. "Time for something to get up, anyway." In the tease, there is a smirk, and he presses against his love. His true love. It's a skittish thought that flutters away like birds scared from a tree.

Her hands run over the smooth skin of his shoulders till they rest on his hips, giving a squeeze as she smiles up at him. The press of their flesh is soothing and it almost feels as if they could melt into one being there in the small bed. Something they’ll certainly do soon. A hand leaves his hip and teases him in an imitation of what they surely will do soon. It pauses and she nibbles the rim of his ear, whispering against his skin. “I had a dream about you. It was so amazing I was sure it was reality.”

"Dreams come true, you know." He kisses her deeply. Sweet nothings between them are a distraction from how he adjusts himself between her legs. "Let me make love to you, apple blossom?" Though the confidence doesn't bleed from his voice, it is definitely a plea. He wants her, badly.

The teasing hand gives a final stroke before moving back to its place on his hip and urging him on in silent desire. Legs part further, wrapping around his and gasping when their bodies touch in those intimate places. "Please, Raoul, please make it come true." The words are barely finished as she kisses him, words and body pleading for him to indulge both their wants.

The expression he makes at being mutually wanted is a sweet, relieved one. It is not a look he gives often, full of truth rather than charm. These moments here with her are not pretend, and he doesn't know how to thank her for them. All he can do is show her that it is appreciated and -respected-. With tenderness, he pushes in deep. "I love you." He whispers again, staying there and basking in this intimacy. He's never been this close to anyone but her and he is so relieved she was the one above all others. Kisses could be flirty, hugs could be chaste, and words were almost meaningless when lies were so prevalent. But this? This is something he only ever wants to experience with her. Eventually his body throws its fit though and he starts to move inside of her again. A small sigh of pleasure escapes him.

That sigh is echoed as she slips her hands up his body to hug him close. Her fingers play in his hair at the nape of his neck and she kisses along his jaw. There is something beyond sexy in these intimate moments and that term, 'making love', holds meaning now. These are not the hurried motions of two people bent on fulfilling an itch that anyone with the right equipment could scratch. No, these are the movements of two people in love that want to express it in the deepest of ways. Hands caress him as she whispers her own sweet nothings now against him, lips kissing a trail down his neck as she moves her hips in the tiniest of motions beneath him. Just to be sure she isn’t imagining it. Just to be certain it isn’t a dream. Though every moment with him could qualify as that and such sweetness, such caring is clear in her eyes as she meets his once more. “I love you. So very much, I love you.”

He hesitates to say he'll always love her. It's the perfect moment, the perfect woman, but he's not a perfect man. That commitment in words is hard to speak. In his mind, he's already made it. He has already gone to such lengths that most men wouldn't. There's devotion and desire there, but somehow -saying- it, spelling it out, is a tangled affair. Silently, he smiles at her and bucks playfully. She is worth this anxiety and more.

The playful smile is returned in kind and she nips his neck. He doesn't have to say anything for her to know his emotions; they’re so apparent in the way he moves with her, the looks he gives her, the way he treats her after the hard road that he’s been pushed and forced down. Fingertips trace over scars again and she arches her back to sink him deeper inside her as her eyelashes flutter. This intimacy is precious not only because she loves him but because of the mutual trust between them. Sexy attire, fine wines, silken sheets, a bed of roses couldn’t hold a candle to what an aphrodisiac that trust is to her. Her own movements quicken and she cups a hand to his cheek, smiling at him still as their bodies work together. The only partner she ever wants in this dance now.

There's a still-alien sensation in her embrace. It's something he's never really put a finger on though he's felt it with her before. Something he knew he would miss more than words could explain if he ever lost it. His hands slide from the bed to her skin, worming between her back and the sheets. Nails dig into her skin possessively. He will never lose her. It's a promise that his body makes on his tongue's behalf. As he thrusts with more passion, he realizes what he's feeling with her now. It is a sense of belonging and purpose. Home.

Quiet sounds of pleasure grow a little in volume; from sweet sighs to needy little moans as her nails mirror his, gripping his back as she tilts her head back and shivers. There is a sense of completeness with him that had been unknown. That little bit that never felt right, that never felt wanted is a shining star with him and she hurriedly kisses him. The passionate, wanting ways she holds him, kisses him, whispers his name between each press of lips is a clue to the detective in her arms that he evokes stronger feelings than she ever thought capable of. Together, they are more than just lovers, more than just damaged goods hoping it goes unnoticed. Together they’re whole.

"Light, Amavia-" He grins and buries that smile against her neck. He's definitely not finished yet, not even close, and that's what amazes him. Knowing they have hours, the whole day really, to swim in this pleasure with each other. At least, until one of the workers bangs on the window with his elbow to get their attention. At least his eyes are focused on the wagon rather than peering inside the bedroom, because the sheets have half-fallen now and it's clear what the "Mr. and Mrs." are doing. The worker bangs again with the flat of his dirty palm and whistles sharply to wake them up before his curiosity finally gets the best of him and he joins the other workers now crowding around the wagon. It has red trimmings and black horses, which startle them the same way Raoul is now startled over Amavia. His rhythm was shot and he laughs weakly with embarrassment while covering them up. A quick kiss is given to her forehead before he just hides there with her. "Guess it really is time to get up."

Those pleased sounds she had been making cut off, her cheeks flushing in embarrassment as the worker pounds on the window. Amavia giggles, the sheet clutched to her bare breasts and she bites his neck in a teasing fashion. “We’ll finish later. I -need- you, sunshine. And I -need- to make you feel it.” There’s a heat to her words and she kisses and sucks gently where she bit, just hard enough to leave a little mark that will show above his collar. Hers and the world can know it. The secrecy had been a rush but the bigger thrill to her is knowing that no one else will ever love either of them they way their partner does. Carefully she extracts herself and finds a light white dress in one of the drawers. It’s similar to the one she wore on the day he proposed. The sunlight pouring through the window outlines her body in a shadow beneath the pure white fabric with the eyelet lace trim and there is nothing innocent about the silhouette that is only his to see for a moment. Long hair is tied back with a leather thong and she winks at him. “I’ll make you some apple pancakes after we see what’s disturbed my little worker bees, honey.” Blowing him a kiss she’s headed out to learn just what it is that’s kicked the hive and disrupted her morning dose of sugar.

Raoul reclines where she had left a warm spot, not quite ready to leave the burrow of heat. On his side and propped up on one elbow, he watches her dress. He doesn't mind being claimed, and the hickey she left him with is just another badge he wears proudly. "I'll be out there soon, love. They probably just dropped some barrels and think you're going to whip them or something." He laughs only because he knows how serious that would be to the workers, and how ridiculous it -really- is. Down the hall, she can pass all the pictures of her family and childhood that Svafa was able to save, as well as a few of her and Raoul that he got only Light-knows-how. Probably stole them from George. They're all happy, at least. Memories to be cherished on the walls. It's a nice home, but the acres around it are even nicer. If only she had time to enjoy the sunrise over the hills and through the trees. The wagon's already up the path and it rolls to a stop in front of the house. A young transient with sandy blonde hair and hazel eyes jumps down from the driver's bench. He looks like the world has fallen to pieces around him.

It’s tempting to get lost in those memories, to holler down the hall and tell him about the moments captured on film. Of the happy times and why they were so grand. But he was right; the workers had probably done something unfortunate that a less kind employer would be upset about. But she is of good temper and in a delightful mood despite the interruption. Things are, in a word, perfect. As she stands there barefoot on the porch she watches the wagon and a little of that ease bleeds from her. The transient is familiar in the same way all of them are; they could be anyone, they could be you if things had gone poorly, and she wets her lips. “Hey there! You in the mood for breakfast? I was going to make some pancakes and I always make extra.” Her most friendly smile is painted on her lips and she puts a hand on her hip. If she could she’d feed all the poor and degenerate of Westfall but she’s doing the best she can. Resources are being put aside to start weekly food and clothes banks and she’s started to spread the word that if her orchard is in need of extra hands they’ll get fed and a place to crash in the hayloft in exchange for an honest day’s work. But the trimmings on this wagon disturb her and in the dusty land of Westfall red is not a welcome color. It doesn’t mean passion or romance. It means Defias. Is this one of her mama’s boys? Or is he an envoy from a higher up with a message she isn’t going to want any part of?

"Um, no thank you, ma'am. Miss Hawkins, I mean. Mrs.? I, uhm." If he had a hat, right now he would be wringing it in his hands. Thankfully, he's not on his own today. A thin man with spectacles climbs from the back of the wagon. He's familiar, but not like the transient. There are more clarified memories of this man. Mr. Hackett. "Little Amy?" He cracks a weak smile at her. It's an endearing one like a long lost friend, but it's sad too. This is not a happy visit.

"Mr. Hackett!" She hops down the steps now, her white skirts swirling about her knees where their hem falls. Memories of Mr. Hackett aren’t as crystal clear as his may be of her but King Mouser and his owner are fond thoughts and she pauses in front of the bespectacled man before throwing manners to the wind and hugging him. They’ve caught her in a good mood and she’s fearful of what two men looking so sad might tell her. If she can hold off the bad news with a smile, with a hug, that’s just one more moment, one more memory that won’t threaten to break her spun sugar heart. “I’m not so little now, sir.” She leans back, smiling up at him before glancing to the young man who looks so agitated. “Just Amy is fine as long as I can be just as friendly with you.” This down to earth girl threatens to spill out of the laces of Lady Delaurac’s corset every time she wears that costume of propiety but here, and with people like this, she can be herself. It’s more relieving than the sweet air that blows in off the ocean.

He hugs her back, his arms like twigs that she is probably strong enough to snap now. "Alright, Amy." He pats her head fondly before the hug is broken, smile even sadder now. The transient waves briefly, not even forcing a smile. "Pidge." Is all he says, and he says it shortly before moving around behind the wagon. Hackett's hands are naked and it's easy to see the cog there now. Things that were once hidden from her as a child. He's surely not the only friend that was really a 'brother', though. "Amy, I don't know how to tell you this..." He trails off for a moment, just in time for Raoul to finally make it out of the house and on to the steps. He's still straightening his shirt and he's not all dressed yet, more just in pants and a dress shirt. It's her lover in a more 'real' and unpolished setting than he's probably ever dared to show anyone before.

Her hand squeezes Hackett's gently and she pointedly looks to the cog and then to his face. She wants him to know that she -knows- and isn't going to yell or holler. It was just another stepping stone on accepting her mama. And caring for someone didn’t mean you had to like everything about them. People were different and their differences made them unique. Made them special. Amavia glances over her shoulder and smiles at Raoul, still trying to buy herself peace before the other shoe drops. She can guess why they’re here but it won’t be real till someone says it. It won’t be true and she can linger in that limbo till someone forces her to acknowledge what’s in that cart. Why they’re here. Answers her mind doesn’t want to dwell on now.

"Do you have a table? A couch? Pidge, help me." Hackett moves back behind the wagon with Pidge and when they come back, they are holding the body of Svafa Hawkins as if she was just drunk and passed out. She doesn't look terrified or peaceful, not even impassive. Her face is just blank and her eyes are closed. But there's red smudges on her neck, and bruises on her jaw from a hard blow. Tendrils of her caramel hair are clumped and hardened together where they'd been dipped in now dried blood, and as the two men carry her past Amavia, there is a large splotch of blood on her back. She'd been struck just under the shoulderblade and the bullets had pierced through her lungs. She'd drowned in that blood, but at least the agony was something she hadn't suffered through. Raoul freezes on the steps, his hands falling away from the shirt buttons. From there he can't seen the obvious and he's wondering if she's just hurt, if they're being pursued. Either way it's grave and he's not sure what to do.


Amavia is impassive for a moment, pointing at the front door. "Got both of ‘em inside. Go on in." Her hand trembles and she falters with her words at first before spitting them in the thicker Westfall drawl that had once colored her words. You can’t cast magic sounding like a hick. If you can’t properly speak the incantation you may as well not bother being a mage. Her teacher had been strict. He had forced proper common out of her but now she couldn’t manage the practiced motions of her tongue to speak it. A little girl stood there where moments ago a young woman had. She swallowed, a little pained sound leaving her as she followed the men. Tears were hot in her golden eyes and she wrapped her arms around her waist for fear she’d tear at her hair and scream. All that bravado, those lies she spun for herself were in danger of crashing down and she felt dizzied by it all as she numbly moved after them. “Mama...” It was a soft whisper, barely a breath, and only for herself and the spirit of her mother who she prayed had moved on and was somewhere happier with her love now.

"I'm sorry, Amy." Hackett inclines his chin as he passes Raoul. He's never met this young man, but Svafa's spoken of him. Svafa was a warm, compassionate woman that always talked about her personal life. So Hackett knows who he is. Raoul doesn't know who Hackett is, but he's not a stupid young man and isn't going to hold up the movement just to question people. He clears himself out of the doorway and runs to his crumbling lover. Trying to be a safe haven, he wraps his arms around her from behind and holds on tight. "Hey, hey..." Kisses press to her hair and the side of her face. He's here and he loves her.

With his arms around her one would think she'd calm but instead those tears she's holding back course down her cheeks and she turns to bury her face against his shoulder. Crying is useless, crying is stupid, but it’s all she can do right now as she hugs to him and weeps quietly against the collar of his half-buttoned shirt. Fingers clutch at the fabric and wrinkle it as she sobs. Dramatics of this nature aren’t something she participates in and the wounded bird in his arms isn’t faking a single tear. She knew her mother would die someday, likely for her Cause, but she was fine pushing that someday back everyday. She was fine going to sleep at night knowing that somewhere else, no matter how far away, her mama was looking at those same stars and moon before she turned in too. But now mama isn’t going to wake up and that someday is here a lot sooner than she feels equipped to deal with. “I wanna see her. I wanna hug her one last time, Raoul. Please.” Please guide her. Please walk with her as she’s certain her own legs don’t quite know how to function.

"Let's give them a second to set her down gently, okay? I'm so sorry, Amy. I love you. She loved you. Very much." He does his best to help her but he moves deliberately slow. One because he's not sure if she can walk, and two because he doesn't want her to run and get in the way of what the two men are trying to do. Some of the workers have taken off their hats and there is a train of apologetic condolences, but none of them really know. They don't know what she's going through. Does Raoul really even know? He never really had parents much to start with, and certainly he didn't have all those good years and the bond that's been ripped away. He frowns and kisses her again as he leads her inside. By the time they get there, the table has been cleared off and a sheet laid down so that blood didn't get on the wood. Hackett swallows as he brushes Svafa's hair out of her face and lifts her hand. No glove there either. Amy's never seen her mother's naked hand before, at least not since she was a baby. It's a pretty hand. Weathered by hard work, but clean and strong. Shredded scraps that had kept her mother bound up are pushed away to the edge of the table and Pidge looks uncomfortable to see them. It wasn't a glorious death and that's very certain whispers: now.

“Mama...” It’s a quiet whine and she worms free of Raoul’s arm once they’re inside again. She isn’t ungrateful for his support, not at all. It’s just legs that moments ago were wooden and hardly able to walk scream to run now and run they do to the side of the table. Her warm hand, her living hand, slips into her mother’s and she presses kisses to the knuckles and even to the cog. Nothing matters, not the Brotherhood or the Law or the wrongs Svafa Hawkins may have done in life. Nothing other than the fact that her mother is here again and dead. Amavia bows her head and weeps over that pretty hand that once tied her shoes and combed her hair. The hand that held her and wiped away tears when she was small and sad. It will never tuck a wayward strand behind her ears again. Will never hug her or make her lunch or hold her. It will never hold a gun or a rapier either. She hasn’t just left a hole in Amavia’s life but she has left a gap in that of others who depended on her. That is something that will be filled, unlike the loss of a mother, but it is a loss nonetheless. Thin arms wrap around Svafa’s shoulders and she hugs to her, weeping against that caramel colored hair that she so envied as a child.

"I'm sorry." Pidge blurts out, at bay only because Hackett made him be. These were two men that loved her dearly, but even their love for her seemed a bit pale to the grieving daughter. Raoul fights hard to keep his expression strong, but he's never seen Amavia like this. Even Sangrey's death hadn't struck her so hard. Raoul tries to wrap his arms around her, but he doesn't try to tear her away. Hackett cuts Pidge off there before the transient can break down and blubber when what Amavia needs right now is a clear explanation why her mother is dead. "She had been infiltrating a company on behalf of the Brotherhood and they botched the protection. They didn't listen to her. We lost a lot of men and women because they were unwilling to cut losses. And when the group made it in, the ship left without her and the workers. They left her to die, Amy." Hackett speaks with more than a little vengeance in his tone. He too was betrayed, thrown off into the lake to die even. But now he knows better, and his only regret is that he didn't get to her in time to save her. He's almost tempted to mention that they drowned King Mouser, but right now, even the dearly departed pet seems insulting to compare to the loss of Svafa Hawkins.

“I’m sorry too.” It’s snuffly and she wipes her eyes with the back of her hand as she leans up. Svafa’s hair is fixed, even further messed by her daughter’s sudden outburst. That sort of behavior wasn’t something she was prone to and her cheeks are flushed with an embarrassment far more keen than that in the bedroom shortly ago. She hiccups and her breath is shaky as she leans against Raoul now. That hand that holds her mother’s never leaves though, afraid to let go for the last time. “Idle Hands, right? Fucking creepers and thugs, all of them.” Not truly all of them but she isn’t in a mood for niceties. The words are practically spat as she thinks of that skinny, ugly old man trying to press her for answers she isn’t going to give. For the thinly veiled threats against people she may have known. Amber eyes dart to Pidge. People she knows now and people she -will- protect. You cannot save the dead but you sure as hell could protect the living. More tears are wiped away and her eyes are hard now, steeled for an answer she’s sure she’ll hear. “They? Are you done with them, Mr. Hackett?” Though she’s trying to be a tough girl the hope colors her words and the hand holding her dead mother’s trembles.

"They threw me off a bridge when I failed to torture someone. I think it's safe to say even if I hadn't quit, that I've been fired." He tries half-heartedly to lighten the mood with the joke, but the sorrow and the loss color his eyes as well. Raoul rubs Amavia's back in soothing circles.

She nods and offers a weak smile. It's hard to even attempt to joke and Amavia looks back to Svafa, stroking her cheek. “Thank you for bringing her here, both of you. She’d want to be buried by Lian, not left behind like some useless old weapon. Back to the Westfall dust.” Amavia swallowed whatever else she had to say and squeezed her mother’s hand more firmly than she intended. But Svafa Hawkins cannot hiss in pain or object. Svafa Hawkins is dead. Her daughter swallows again and wavers on her feet, casting a longing look at one of the chairs that have been pushed back now. To sit here and just be alone would be so welcome but she is not the only person to have loved her mother and these two men clearly did as well. And in that love showed a faithfulness few others would and that is something she cannot shove away, cannot ignore. “I can’t thank you enough. I’ll find a way to try but know you have my eternal gratitude.”

"She deserved it. Did a lot of good for people like me." Pidge pipes up, before he slumps into one of the chairs. Hackett nods and then looks back to Amavia. "We'd like to be there when she's buried. A lot of the men probably would. I don't know how many will leave, but they'll all want to be there when she's buried. We'd like a day to tell them."

"Of course I'll wait a day. That won't cause any trouble for you if some of the Brotherhood show, will it Mr. Hackett. I don't want to bury two." Amber eyes are watery and she wipes at them again with the back of her hand. "Also, I bet I can think of some employment for the both of you. I think mama would have like her friends close at hand. I know I would." She smiles at that and allows herself a moment to daydream. What it would have been like to just sit on the porch and drink lemonade and relax, joking and laughing while the sun set over the ocean and the fireflies made fairy lights out in the tall grass. A simple, quiet life. But hers is neither of those things now. She looks to Raoul and rests her head against his shoulder. Despite her wealthy aunt the only family she really has is here and holding her now. If only she knew the words to express her thanks.

"Well... I certainly wasn't loved as much as she was, but I'm willing to risk that. To be there." Hackett nods and dips his small hat before he moves out of the way. "I should get going then, get started on making that round." Raoul nods and tries to urge Amavia into sitting down too.

"You best not get shot too, Mr. Hackett. I don't think I could handle a dead friend on top of this. Please be safe. You and I have loads to talk about soon." She nods at him, giving a slight smile. It's a friendly expression though the first words were firm. To hear poor Mr. Hackett who used to bring his mushy faced cat by was dead too, Light, it would be like kicking a puppy. At Raoul's urging she sits and scoots her chair close to the table. Eyes close slowly and she shudders with a sigh. "So Pidge. You seem like a nice fellow. You in the market for a job and a safe place to sleep?" It wouldn't save Westfall or the world to help one transient but Light damn it could save his world at least.

Raoul fights hard to hide his incredulous look at the sudden and blatant offer. Pidge swallows. "I don't reckon I really deserve it, ma'am."

"I don't reckon I'll take no as an answer. I've been putting aside money and purchasing clothes and such for transients. But I know what pride is and how hard it can be to accept help. Won't you stay here and help me help them? They'd believe it more if you were the one offering aid with me than some upstart girl with a fancy orchard. Please Pidge? You'd be doing honest work in exchange for room and board and a small wage." Her eyes are soft and her lower lip quivers in the beginnings of a pout. She just wants to help and Light damn it, won't someone let her?

"Well... I guess that's something your mama would like. That's how I met her, you know. She was passing out food and blankets to people like me. Real nice lady." Pidge looks down then, as if he's ashamed to look Amavia in the eye after failing to save her mother.

At the reminder of her mother the corpse seems larger, dominating her field of vision and her mind. Mama is dead. Mama is here and dead and they’re going to bury her tomorrow. Idle Hands might be out for blood now. Mama went and pissed off some scary people. But those are worries for later and she shoved them aside as she does with all the bad. Easier to smile than to frown and she does that just now. “Real nice lady indeed. She didn’t want to see the people of Westfall go without and neither do I. If you prefer I could always use more help with the trees. Mama loved apple trees and so do I. Hawkins girls belong in orchards.” She smiles at Raoul now and leans over to kiss his cheek. “So how about it, come work for me, for us, Pidge? Everybody deserves a break.”

"I'll try not to let you down, ma'am. I should... I should give you a moment with her mama though." He rises to a stand then, swallowing hard. Raoul kisses Amavia's cheek back and nods. "Good men deserve second chances. I'd say it's a good man that risks his life to bring a mother home to her daughter."

Amavia nods brightly and smiles at Pidge. "Thank you, Pidge. I'll make sure you get some time alone with her too. I know it's hard sometimes to say what you're feeling with an audience." Another smile and she takes a shaky breath. "And I agree with Raoul. You're a good man and I appreciate what you've done." All that said she turns back to her mama's body and shudders. She doesn't want to deal with this. She doesn't want to deal with any of this. She wants to be back in bed and in Raoul's arms wasting daylight while they kiss and remind each other how their bodies work.

"Do you want me to go away too, apple blossom? I can go if you need space but I'm here too if you need me. I love you." He brushes her hair and kisses her sweet, fond ways.

Beneath his hands her stiff posture fades. She leans up to catch his lips against hers and whispers. "Don't leave me, sweetheart. I don't want to be alone. I just don't want to have to pretend it's alright cause it ain't." Tears waver in her eyes and she still holds her mother's hand as she tries to hug him with her other.

"I -do- mean it, Amavia. I promise. I swear on the Light-damn gods- I'll always be here for you. I'll always love you." If this was was the little push he needed, well it's here now. He holds her so tight that it seems like he might not be able to let go.

Some ease works into her shoulders and back and she clings to him a little less fiercely. Breathing comes easier and she buries her face against his hair to take in the reassuring smell of her love. “I will always love you too. You’re my true love, Raoul.” Words that should be spoken in a shower of rose petals are instead whispered in the room that houses her mother’s corpse. But Svafa Hawkins was a practical woman and she wouldn’t want her only daughter to dwell. If it’s a broken part replace it and the new part was here in her arms.

"I'm sorry this is how it happened, Amavia." Raoul tries to soothe her even more with caresses and hushing sounds.

"Don't be sorry. I love you and you love me. I'm yours and that's it, forever." Her nose rubs against his and she smiles. "I want to lay down. May I please do that? I-I can't look at her anymore. I don't want to feel. I don't want to think."

"Wait one moment. Let's give her a little decency. Do you know what she- We'll worry about it tomorrow." Raoul folds the edges of the sheet back up over Svafa. They billow for a second before they delicately settle over her face. For a second, it looks like the sheets out on the line when she was taking laundry down to fold. How the wind would dance the sheets and she would stop to just breathe and be alive. She used to think of things then, but not now. There's nothing there now. Once she's covered, it's hard to tell it's even her except for stature, and Raoul tries to guide Amavia back to the bedroom.

She is easily herded away, head bowed as she presses her eyes shut. If she just doesn't see, if she just doesn't think about it then it won't be true. "Will you sing to me, sunshine? I just don't want to be in my own mind right now. Spare me from thinking?" Fingers are desperate to lace with his and she stares at him with hope.

"What do you want me to sing?" Raoul picks her up when he simply can't stand to see her walk like that anymore. She's held to his chest like a child, arms guided to his neck and legs guided to his waist. "I'll do anything you want, lover."

In his arms she hides her cheek against his and sniffles softly. "Something sweet. I don't know the songs you know. Just the lighthouse song." How far away that seemed now, that bonfire in her mother's yard making smorcs. Could only a few months have truly passed?

When they are in the bedroom, he sets her down gently on the quilt. They'd been making love there less than an hour ago. He then turns and pulls a guitar from the closet before returning to her. He climbs up on the bed next to her and invites her to lay closer. The guitar would fight for his lap, but at least his legs are free to cling to.

She lay on his legs, pillowing her head on his thighs as she sighs. The tears are gone but that empty spot in her chest is still there. Can it be filled? The ones left by Lian and her grandpa and her wrecked home and her Lantern still gape months later. Can a heart ever truly heal? Such heavy questions are what she's begging him to help her avoid and she moves to not fight his instrument too much for space. "I'd be nothing without you now, sweetheart. I love you so very much. Always."

((And then Raoul played dis song for her: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ihj7zZyyUXA&list=PL8EB55301C74D8E7F&index=16 ))

Amavia lids her eyes and lets the song wash over her. It's sweet and the words hold more meaning than most would know. But he does. He knows her better than anyone. Better than Jeffrey and though it hurts to think that it's true. Her first, her baby, was kind and precious in the time they had together, the time before he became Sangrey but he didn’t know her like this. He had lost his mother too but would he have held her while she cried or been lost to another fit of rage? It didn’t matter now as she snuggled against Raoul. Jeffrey was deader than her mother in their home and nothing would change that. Nothing would change what she had here and now. Though the song was gentle she still wept, tears wetting his pant leg as her shoulders shook with each sob. When the song was over she rolled onto her back and smiled weakly at him through the tears that still clung to her lashes.“Thank you, Raoul. You’re too good to me.”

The guitar slides across the bed until it's out of the way and he lays himself next to her, holding her fiercely and kissing her tear-stained cheeks. "Nothing's too good for you, apple blossom."

"I like to think you spoil me." She smiles again, eyes shut as his lips dry the tears off her smooth cheeks. Arms wrap around him and she clings there, shuddering as she contains more sobs. They won't be of any use. He doesn't need to keep doing this; it's taxing and annoying and no one cares. Her teeth bite into her lower lip and she hisses softly against the hollow of his neck where she hides now. "I'm sorry I'm such a wreck. I'm sorry. Thank you for being here. Thank you for being who you are. I love you so much. I don't deserve you."

((And then she fell asleep and Raoul was ;-; for his baby. ))

Amy + Archmage Worthington RP Log

Afternoon sun rained through the large tree near the Antonidas memorial in dappled rays. Against its rough bark a young woman leaned and stared hard at something sitting in front of her. Displeasure was clear on her features; one thin brow was quirked upward while her lips her pressed into a thin line. Near her crossed legs was a small cloud of butterflies that sparkled each time the sun caught their wings.

One landed on a flower and another the folded coat she’d set aside. Its khaki colored fabric was dull compared to the riot of colors that swirled over paper thin wings. Her palm was flat and her tanned hand gave a wave that would seem more suited to a conductor to his orchestra. Creations fluttered to and fro but she still didn’t seem pleased. Eyes closed and she sighed; the hand gave a wiggle and her fingers twitched.

The flapping of wings became akin to a tea kettle’s whistle and amber eyes snapped open in anger. With a hard wave they all exploded into little sparkles and trails of the glittery residue rained down onto the grass.

“Stupid illusions. Stupid butterflies.” Her language would have been much more colorful were she in her dorm but it wouldn’t due to lose her temper here when any passersby might be a friend of her master. Professor Spacklenox was due to meet her again on monday and expected progress when there had been little of it.

How was one to make the obscure when they had no desire for it? Practical things, disguises and illusions to conceal things, those appealed to her. Not a symphony of butterflies that exploded into multicolored rain.

What would she even use that for?

With a groan she leaned her head back and her familiar imitated her much to her displeasure. It was no use to lecture the thing as it did what it pleased in most regards. It felt more like an arcane babysitter than a resource some days.

Under the protective arcane shield, the city was bathed in a warm illusion of summer. The sun was warm and the breeze just a gentle caress of air. It was barely enough to dance the flowers and the soft grass. So when that breeze became still and the warmth drained to a sobering coolness, it was immediately noticeable. Though the tall shadow was over her, it was in truth just the man’s presence that made the world a bit colder.

“I never found Illusions to be an easy pursuit,” he said calmly, “I have always preferred more practical studies.”

He waited for a moment, holding a tall staff on his left side. It was an imposing thing, much like himself, of silver bark that entwined at the top to support a globe of frost. While not particularly flashy, it did not need to be. Simple and intimidating through its simplicity. The older man’s clothes were much the same, though for different reasons.

They were long robes of grey and blue, embroidered with silver blocky chain links along the cuffs and torso. A second, thinner robe was beneath them, of pale grey that peered out from beneath the airy split of the top garment. Metallic fastens pretended to hold it all together, but it was actually the hidden seams of ironweave that did that job. Hidden strength.

Patiently, his light hazel eyes rested on her. They looked like frost orbs themselves, with a beard of harsh snow and a weathered face. The wrinkles there looked more severe than they were for his stern expression- well, perhaps not as stern as she might have remembered from Jeffrey’s ‘celebration’. But this was a man that had slain dragons, buried two wives and a son, and carried many other trials she knew nothing about.

Softness did not come easily to him, even when he made the attempt such as now.

Eyes snapped open at the voice she did not recognize and the words were hardly understood when she saw the speaker. With all the speed of her youth she popped up, blinking at him and opening her mouth to reply before thinking better of it. A polite bow was given and she glanced up at him through the strands of auburn hair that brushed her cheeks as she righted herself.

Today she had chosen something light to wear beneath her coat. An airy white shirt that though woven of thin and soft materials did not reveal anything she didn’t wish for. Along the collar violets had been embroidered and the tiny purple flowers popped against the pale cloth. Light brown, almost cream even, pants disappeared into the tops of brown leather boots. The soles were stamped with the eye of the Kirin Tor but standing and with no much or mud to mire about it how could one tell? Percy’s charm bracelet decorated her wrist and one of Raoul’s bracelets the other. The cloudy heart-shaped stone ring was on one of her fingers but beneath the Archmage’s gaze she felt small and cheap.

“Hello, sir! I ah, I’m more fond of the practical too. I can weave disguises and hide things behind illusionary walls and objects but Professor Spacklenox prefers things more...light-hearted. I don’t think I’ll ever excel in her class.”

Nervously she raked a hand through her hair and the silver charm of the dragon-headed box got caught in one of the strands. With a mortified expression she began to untangle at it and smiled nervously after.

She had expected to one day face his wrath for the things she’d done. It was just such a plain day, a day of little portent for such an encounter. Amavia prayed he’d be swift in his reprimands and not too many people would overhear it.

Though, in her heart, she felt she deserved much worse.

“Young Ms. Hawkins, perhaps it would ease you to know that I did not excel in my Illusion courses either.” It was a matter-of-fact reply that didn’t carry over the comfort intended. It was hard to imagine that the Archmage Worthington had not excelled in every single thing he had ever attempted in his life.

His eyes did not burn holes straight through her soul, though they certainly seemed capable of doing so.

Hands folded and tucked behind her before she tried to cease fidgeting and put them in her pockets. “Really? I always feel like such a doofus! Raoul can blow kisses of beautiful dragonhawks but when I want a light it’s just a light. Just there to do its job. Though Raoul and George both are pretty stylish when it comes to the arcane.”

Her smile became a little more brave and she tucked the errant strands of hair back. Light damn them for constantly escaping their proper place! “You’re a mage that’s very talented in frost magics, right?” How strange it was to have a conversation with him now when months ago she’d have died for it.

Funny how time works.

“I am an Archmage, Ms. Hawkins. I believe talented is an excessive understatement.” If it was meant in jest or as a cold reminder, it was difficult to tell by his voice alone. A strange, tired smile tugged at the corner of his lips then and his intention became a bit clearer. The smile almost looked... dusty.

He hadn’t worn that particular expression in a few years now.

The small smile receded again, “Yes, they both enjoy the attention for their own reasons. I am grateful you do not share that particular desire with them.”

Any minute now. Any minute he would smite her where she stood. Who would even care to stop him?

At his slight joke, only evident to her when that long unused smile graced his lips, hers became a little brighter and her eyes warmer. The Archmage didn’t have blue eyes either. They were a color she didn’t see often and though they didn’t twinkle with the same humor his son’s green ones often held she liked looking at them.

You were- could have been -my father-in-law. I’m sad that we didn’t speak till now.

“You should see what Raoul is doing to my wardrobe! I don’t know a bigger clothes horse than that young man and I’ve never worn things so flashy as he seems to love. I’m actually, ah, kind of shy. I don’t do well approaching people outside of work so I prefer the pizzazz to stay to a minimum in my own magic.”

Sunlight glinted off her bracelet as she went to rake a hand through her hair again and caught herself. That was a nervous gesture. A Raoul gesture and she wasn’t going to borrow that as easily as she stole his shirts.

“I think ‘talented’ is a very weak description for your prowess, sir, but I didn’t want to seem like I was sucking up.”

“Walk with me if it pleases you. There is much to discuss, between you and I.” He nodded curtly and turned then, his robes swirling around practical boots. The older man didn’t bother looking over his shoulder to see if she would follow. As with the protocols of their Order, she had little choice. Giving her an option was mostly manners.

The butt of his staff clicked with every step he took, moving at a steady, even pace away from the memorial.

The satchel was thrown over her shoulder, the golden badge affixed to it glinting in the sunlight and the holographic eye sparkling. Coat was folded over her arm and she took a few quick steps to catch up to him. She didn’t walk at his side but rather a half step behind him. That was respectful, wasn’t it?

Amavia knew she wasn’t his equal and didn’t wish to seem to be thinking it. All the manners and protocol were still strange to her but she wasn’t completely daft. He was an archmage and a noble and she was an apprentice and well, her birth was up for debate now.

“I didn’t expect to be conversing with you today or I would have dressed more appropriately, my apologies. Raoul and I are likely doing work after he gets out of Transmutations.” Work was good. She wasn’t a lazy freeloader (though her education was hardly something that hadn’t been paid for - in more than coin alone) just blowing off studies and lounging in a park on a nice summer day.

“I am honored to finally talk with you though, sir. I’ve heard a great deal about you from many people.”

“The same could be said in your direction, Ms. Hawkins. Many people say a great deal.” He glanced over his shoulder at her then, not inviting her up beside him but rather looking content with how it was now. There was no reason for him to fear a dagger, or more likely an arcane barrage, in the back.

They moved under a long arch, almost a tunnel really, nearby Runeweaver Square, but they passed it entirely. Brightly colored stained glass windows from the Hocus Pocus Inn flashed at Amavia, trying to entice her to stop in and order a drink, but if the Archmage even noticed them he didn’t show it. Enchantments of that variety had long since stopped affecting his mind.

There were shadows here- nothing dire, nothing suspicious, but certainly they were no longer in the sun. A newspaper rolled across the ground before them, but the Archmage swept a hand and it disintegrated into gold and silver sparks that faded when they floated to the ground.

The Worthington signet on his hand was almost obnoxious in how noticeable it was, being the only accessory on his person. Finally though, he continued with his earlier statements.

“You have kept the company of the Blue Dragonflight, and that is only to begin with.”

The rapid beating of her heart was so loud she swore the Archmage would surely hear it as they walked. Nervous hands adjusted her purple scarf, the golden stars muted in the shadows of the tunnels.

“I’m hardly interesting. And Percy? Or Nilagos, well, I’m not sure what he wants to be called now. My mother acquired him in her work. He was caged up with a variety of whelps and somehow coerced her I’m sure. He had a little device on his ankle that prevented him from casting when I got him and I removed it. I think had I not been able to he would have flown away at first chance. He calls me Test Subject most days, sir. We have an interesting relationship. Sometimes he teaches me things other days he wants me to make him sandwiches.”

It all sounded silly and she clamped her lips shut and smiled nervously at his back. If he so felt like it he’d burn her away like that stray paper and she’d do well to remember it. A hand was shoved in her pocket and the charm bracelet caught on her pants.

“He made me this! Ah, not that it would interest you. He doesn’t ever send me interesting messages through it anyhow.” Her wrist lifted and shook once and possibly the most nervous laugh that had ever passed her lips sounded in the tunnel.

As she spoke, the archmage turned his attention forward again. Nothing she said or did caused him to pause or to look back at her. Not even the jingle of the scale charm brought his hazel eyes back to her. A quiet settled between them like a rope, its unseen coils keeping them from getting lost in their own thoughts.

They passed a window to someone’s home, moving into a residential district. The blooms in the flowerbed were living things, buttercups and fly traps that snapped at a passing insect. They made low, stupid growling noises. They were pretty to look at, at least.

When they began to pass more windows and soon violet doors, the Archmage finally spoke again. “One is either interesting or hardly so, Ms. Hawkins. Perhaps regrettably, one cannot be both. If you lead an interesting life, have interesting ‘relationships’, and lend voice to interesting ideas, then it is only sensible that you fall into the former rather than the latter. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I do, sir.” She wet her lips and slipped her hands into her pockets as they walked along. Her familiar had stared at the flowers and sparked once in purple shoots of arcane energy. It was unimpressed with the plants and stared so hard it them that it bumped Amavia roughly in the backs of her thighs.

The girl shot it a Look of Disapproval so stern the familiar dragged the tips of its purple fingers along the ground. No screeching sound accompanied the movements and Amavia’s lips pressed into that thin line of disapproval they almost always wore in the last months of Jeffrey’s life.

It was the elekk between them and she wondered when it would be brought up.

An unremarkable house that lacked anything noteworthy at all was where the Archmage paused, turning sharply on the cobbled path and looking softly ahead. He held out a hand in gesture for her to stop as well, long billowy sleeve hanging from it. The wrinkled, worn skin looked elegant still with the cloth beside it.

“Then let us not play games, Ms. Hawkins. You are of note and interest. You are apprenticed to a well known mage and your professors speak kindly of you. To put that in perspective, professors did not speak of my son George at all.”

The cream colored walls were almost the exact same color as her pants, with violet shingles and curtained windows. The path from the white picket fence to the door was ordinary, just some stones with the grass peeking through. It certainly didn’t look important.

At his gesture her footsteps ceased and her familiar coasted to rest at her ankles. She tilted her head slightly as she took in the home and refrained from blinking in confusion. This couldn’t be his home here in Dalaran. When she’d imagined his quarters here they were something far more luxurious than this quaint house.

This home was the kind of place people like her would live and raise their children and scramble for enough gold to rub together to make their tuition. Not a noble like Archmage Worthington.

“I prefer being forthright, sir. I thank you though for passing such on; I had no idea they spoke of me at all. And I love being apprenticed to George. He was very kind in taking me on.” Kind was a nice way to put charitable and surely the archmage knew of the cost of her apprenticeship.

Which was to say, it cost nothing at all. What she did for George was a pleasure, not a chore, and one she was happy to do.

“I think you give him too much credit towards his altruism, Ms. Hawkins. Or perhaps, as you’ve reminded me, Apprentice Hawkins would be more appropriate. My apologies.”

The wrinkled hand lowered again, but a long finger crooked to beckon her closer. Hazel eyes like melting ice continued to stare forward at the house. “You have done well for yourself as both an apprentice and an independent practitioner. Someone else would look at your success and assume you’ve put a great deal of thought into your future. I am, however, hesitant to believe that is true.”

It almost sounded like a scolding, perhaps the beginning of the tempest she was expecting.

Amavia swallowed whatever words she had meant to say and shuffled closer, as close as was appropriate for an apprentice to an archmage. The strap of her satchel was fussed with, tucked higher on one slim shoulder and she all but clung to his robes and begged him to scold her and be done with it. This waiting and uncertainty was more torturous than direct violence upon her person.

“You are correct, sir. My life was rather willy nilly till recently. I always had vague goals but little in the way of means to achieve them. I am lucky to be here today but I am afraid I may not call Dalaran home for much longer.”

“You are not a dull-witted apprentice. George would not have accepted you if that were the case. You would not be enrolled in independent study with the blessing of your professors, if that were the case.” He glanced sidelong at her then, well, over and down rather for their grievous height difference.

“A raw spark flung into the fields is a dangerous thing. Without direction, it will capture and devour everything until it swells into a wildfire. That is a very destructive path, but perhaps I am being hamhanded in reminding you of that.” The archmage reached up and stroked his long beard thoughtfully.

This was not useless poetry. The Archmage was not a man for such things. He did not indulge in artistry without purpose, or drunken, emotional confessions of the things racing across his mind. He was no father to Jeffrey Ellis Worthington, that was clear.

“To that end, my son George has informed me that your partner is looking into your birth father, and his family. There is a sizable chance that he is nobility. Delaurac was the name, yes?”

There had never been reason for her to be embarrassed about her birth when her father was a nameless shape that had done no more than help make her. But now, thinking on what her mother had done to so many, Amavia nodded and her cheeks flushed slightly.

“Basil Delaurac. My mother confessed it - and other things regarding him - to me. But sir, I..” The girl trailed off and she ducked her head. It was the posture of a smaller girl than she had been in years and had she realized she was behaving so foolishly she would have laughed.

“I’m very afraid they wouldn’t want anything to do with me. Knowing what she did.” It came in a rush and she glanced up at him through her thick lashes.

“The Delaurac name is one that has long inspired fear, among many other things. There is much to fear from them indeed. That they would not want you as their own is not however, a fear to be indulged. That is a noble house that...” He paused then. At a loss for words? Hesitant to say it? Unlikely.

He knew what he was saying and had no reservations about doing so. Something about the house had simply stolen his attention for a moment.

“As I was, a noble house that I am not surprised you hail from, if all speculation is true. They are a cold, ambitious, relentless lot. Cunning as they are cruel. Delaurac is a dark name in this city, Apprentice Hawkins. A dark, dark name indeed.” If he was implying she followed them to the letter, his expression didn’t treat her as such.

The man that had said so little, that needed to say so little, was talking a great deal now.

“Whether the charges against Svafa Clarice Hawkins hold any weight or not, the Delauracs will want you. I should think a more reasonable fear would be that they will pursue you even if you do not want them.” Another stroke of his beard, this time the hand lingering at the impossibly neat end.

“Apprentice Hawkins, there are some who would erroneously blame you for the suicide of Jeffrey-Ellis Sangrey. Are you aware of this?”

Now her own attention was turned to the house and she studied it a long moment before she spoke. What had he been staring at? What was so special about this place?

“I am, sir. My mother, during what very well may be our final conversation, told me that Jeffrey did not kill himself but rather it was my fault. I am sorry, sir, for what she did to him and if you are upset with me and wish some sort of vengeance I understand. I am not faultless in the path he took but the experiments she did on him for her Brotherhood are inexcusable and I will still testify against her.”

His calm demeanor was more terrifying than if he were raging at her and she turned her eyes back to him now. “I am truly sorry for your loss. I loved him very much but I could not love the man he became.”

“Would you believe, Apprentice Hawkins, that you are not the first young woman to say those words?” He did not even blink, letting go of his beard and rubbing his index finger and thumb together lightly. A few sprinkles of light, almost unnoticeable in the daytime, fell from the gesture.

It was her clever mind that she was often was praised for and she nodded. Eyes watched the sparks a moment before they returned to his face, brow slightly furrowed. “I would think that many women throughout time have uttered them, sir. But I can hazard a guess on who you may mean based on some of Jeffrey’s more wild ramblings.”

The voice to lend to her guess was slow in coming and she took another swallow. “Do you mean your second wife? The Lady Annabelle Worthington?”

He canted his head just slightly, watching the house again. A relatively soft exhale escaped him. It sounded tired. Old.

“Lady Annabelle Worthington was a woman of many talents. She was not unlike yourself. Perhaps that is why Jeffrey loved you as dearly as he did, does still perhaps. But that is another matter that delves into Divination- in short, she had an ambitious path before her and all the love in her heart for one man could not equal that path’s worth.” He held up a hand to silence any objections that might come.

“That is not to say she was unfaithful, or that she was heartless. That is not to say she did not mourn what she was leaving behind. As you must know, Jeffrey Ellis Sangrey was not my son. I loved him as such, but love is not blood when such bonds are up for question. His true sire was a man named Line Whiteherald. She almost married him- did, in fact, if you will accept the faulty legal system of Stormwind.”

There was just a hint of disdain in the city’s name, but that was unsurprising. Dalaran was ever a beacon of its own arrogance and independence.

“For the cruelty of men and women beyond his own control, that man was tortured and twisted. Lady Annabelle risked much in trying to save him. Many times over did she relive those tears for me. I do not tell you this to betray her confidence or to inspire unnecessary pity. She was not a woman to be pitied.”

A bushy brow was arched and he looked down at her pointedly to drive the message home.

“She was given a choice. To pursue her ambitions and lamentably let go of what she once held dear, or to abandon all of her ideals to hunt for a man that no longer existed. At least, a man that did not exist in the state she had loved so dearly. There are some who would erroneously blame her for the choice she made. Do you see the parallels, Apprentice Hawkins?”

“I do, sir. And I must confess to you that both father and son were tortured by the same woman.” She did not repeat her mother’s name but the look she gave the older wizard was plain in her meaning.

“Both Line Whiteherald and Raoul’s aunt suffered at her hands years before Jeffrey. I cannot understand how one individual is capable of sowing so much intertwined strife but there is little I can do beyond accepting it.” Her familiar, long bored with the conversation, plucked at a strand of grass and blew at the tip of it. Arcane beings such as it required no air to breath and rather than a gust of it ruffling the green blade it was a little sizzle of arcane magic.

“I hope that people can understand that I would choose to pursue my dreams and not cast aside my ideals. I was dangerously close to doing so, out of love, but upon seeing what he was capable of I couldn’t. I tried to save him but in the end, sir, it was up to him. I am still so sorry for his end and I do miss him and love him. But after what he did to me and do others I could not be his bride.”

“You do not need to explain yourself to me. You are not on trial.” The hand went back to stroking his beard. “I would recommend you do not lament for years as Lady Annabelle did, but you are not with child to my understanding, so the process will no doubt be smoother for you. I have imparted all of this to you because the similarities run deeper than amusing curiosity. I do not know where all of these roads lead, but I do know with utter certainty that the young man you loved has left this world. In both concept and form.”

An apparition-like hologram stepped through the door. It was a tall woman with sandy blond hair tied back in a messy bun. She had piercing green eyes and fair skin. Though she wore the robes of the Kirin Tor, there was a lap harp secured to her hip and she wore countless bangles on her wrists. Earrings and a gaudy amount of other accessories all shimmered.

As she danced and twirled from the steps to the path, and then to the grass, she laughed. There was so much life in her laughter, in her gestures, in her eyes. In her smile.

Despite himself, the archmage smiled too.

“This is an undoubtedly difficult world to advance in. Keeping what you have is a very real struggle, let alone obtaining more. Sometimes we as Kirin Tor gamble for more than we can carry in our arms and on our backs. We are left then with few choices. It is unfortunate that choices are more a burden than a blessing in your life, but you are not alone. You are not the first.”

If the illusion noticed them, she chose to ignore them. Carefree and enjoying every moment of her ‘existence’ in the yard, she ran her fingers over flowers, sang loudly to some passing butterflies, and even did a spirited somersault over the path. Her bare feet looked sandy, and an ankle bracelet with the Worthington signet attached sparkled.

“You can be crushed beneath the weight of your ‘fortunes’, or you can let go. The memories can be haunting, but that is no reason to die with them.” He lost his smile then and smoothed down his beard instead of stroking it. “My son George believes that nothing should be let go of. He created this, you should know.” Archmage Worthington gestured with the globe of frost that crowned his staff, pointing to the illusion.

“I don’t suppose you know where you are, do you, Apprentice Hawkins?”

There were so many things she wanted to say in regards to Archmage Worthington’s words but at a direct question she could not. To ignore it would be rude and to be rude to one of his standing could be fatal in ways beyond a physical death.

“I do not, sir. But if I am to hazard another guess that is George’s mother? They bear a certain resemblance to one another.” And the anklet had dispelled the last of her doubts.

“Ah, yes, yes.” He waved a hand dismissively at the illusion, who was now busy strumming her harp and twirling some more. Strands of her hair fell out of the way and revealed the pointed tips of her ears. “Her name was Amelia. She was a scientist without measure, but her mother’s elven blood had always left a... particular mark on her personality.”

With the staff, he pointed to the house beyond the illusion.

“My son George lived in that house for only eight years of his life, but he never forgave me for leaving it. Amelia died when he was only ten. Though it is illogical, the coincidental timing of her illness and our advancement to a tower always pained him. I do not think you would believe the youthful fits he threw at Lady Annabelle’s decision to marry me. I do not think anyone would.”

He righted his sleeve by pinching the end and meticulously correcting it.

“He keeps this illusion here now. He has done so since he was able to reclaim the house. It is wasteful, Apprentice Hawkins. No one lives here. An illusion is its only caretaker. Wasteful.” He clucked his tongue, chiding the sentimentality perhaps a bit coldly considering it was his late wife.

“If I had not threatened its destruction and re-purposing into a wand shop, an illusion of Jeffrey and Lady Annabelle both would also be here. Despite his initial protests, he was very fond of them both. He loved them both. But I cannot allow him to languish in those memories. A man must make his own path, as must a woman, but his independence has allowed too many trespasses already.”

Amria came to mind then. How many other bastards did George have? Were his scandalous affairs really all the fun and games they seemed? Were there consequences on his career and reputation? Things no one talked about because they were too busy blushing and laughing. Perhaps one needed a cold eye like the Archmage’s to see past the frivolity to the danger.

“Come, sit with me. I am an old man and I tire easily.” Another grace of manners to thinly veil an order. He pushed open the white gate and moved towards a white stone bench beside the house. There was a heart in his chest after all though, for he did stop and smile at the illusion once. Only once, but she blew a kiss his way and returned to her play.

It was easy to see where George got his personality from.

“Gladly, sir.” Her best manners had been brushed off the moment he’d startled her in the square and she followed him obediently now. Delighted to be moving once more, her familiar ghosted along at her heels and stopped to stare at the illusion of Amelia.

Amavia hid her own smiled behind the brush of her hand as she raised it to fix her scarf. Who was she to judge this man as callous for not swooning over an illusion of his dead wife? He had buried two wives and a son and Light knew who else that he had loved. Misery takes a toll on one’s spirit and she certainly wasn’t going to question his heart now.

People grieved in many ways and though George’s tribute to his mother was sweet she was thankful Jeffrey and Annabelle did not join the phantom of Amelia Worthington. To know that a specter of the young man lived in this city still, beyond the memories of him burned into certain areas, would be crushing.

Moving on would be more difficult and though she was young she could not dwell. Not now and not on a lost cause. There were things to be had here in the present and with people that lived. To remain among the memories, haunted by them, would be a waste in so many ways.

Amavia waited till the archmage was seated before joining him. Always careful to keep a respectful distance and her tone respectful. This man was important in so many ways she could possibly begin to list them all right now.

He held his staff off to the side as he sat, looking as relaxed as he would ever be, which was to say not very relaxed at all. His posture was straight and rigid. His eyes were narrow and judgmental, even when they rested on the grass or the stones. Perfection was the impossible bench mark to meet for his approval. How Jeffrey had longed for that approval so once.

How crushed he had been when he swore he no longer cared to have it, so long as he had Amavia.

“If I was to grace you with a favor, Amavia Hawkins, could I expect that it would be returned in kind?”

This startled her and she paused in fussing with her folded coat in her lap. Gloved fingers paused on the khaki fabric and she blinked a moment. Mama had told her once never to trust nobles. That they would do nothing but take take take. But wouldn’t such a gesture of cooperation and faith be good? Not to endear her to the Archmage but rather to show that she wasn’t the hellion people probably made her out to be.

“Of course, sir. What would you have of me?” Compliant and sweet was her tone, eyes on the older man now. And he was old. Not like Master Twizzlewand but older by far than his eldest son. To know what trials and triumphs he had been a part of would be so very exciting to her.

But those kind of questions were not seemly for her to ask. It was not her place to make inquiries of him.

“I will get to that in time, we both will rather. Another question then, and also an observation shared.” He glanced down to her, those judging eyes focused solely on her own amber ones now. She might as well have been staring into the glaciers of Northrend below them.

“Broken hearts are capable of doing many things. Unpredictable things. Insane things, one could safely say. I have observed that in my years, among many other observations but this one is relevant. I know among those misunderstood, unpredictable things is seeking comfort with another heart of like nature.”

His free hand raised, one finger held up in warning to her. He would not tolerate dishonesty. Neither in lies to him, or lies to herself.

“To speak candidly, bluntly as we have agreed, have you found comfort with your partner? My son George’s first apprentice?”

Even if one wanted to lie how could they with his eyes staring at her so. Like a rabbit beneath the gaze of a lion she stared mutely at him. If that slightly fearful expression wasn’t enough to satisfy his curiosity her words that came next certainly were.

“Raoul would be very upset with me, as he has made it quite clear anything we do is to be a secret, but I cannot lie to you sir. Yes, I have found comfort with him. He is very special to me.” Her hands twitched in her lap and her shoulders shrugged slightly. Surely he would tell her not to muddy another young man that was under his watch.

I’m so sorry, White Knight.

Though he clearly judged her in all things with his eyes, his expression remained neutral. Calm. Self-possessed. He was a model of the chant she had ingrained into her mind.

“If he has requested it be a secret, then I will venture he has also informed you that this is not allowed amongst investigators. However, I know Raoul very well, as I have known him his entire life, and will also venture he has not told you why it is forbidden. Is this correct?”

“He has not.” There was so much more she wanted to tack on but she pressed her lips together and tried to mirror his calm demeanor. She could be withdrawn but it was so taxing! Lately she had let her own emotions be so much closer to the surface and perhaps she would suffer for that now.

Perhaps she and Raoul both would.

Archmage Worthington lowered his hand again, no longer needing to hold such a very real threat over her. It went unspoken now.

“The Kirin Tor Investigators hold to the ideal that apprentices should not be romantically involved because of the repercussions. In theory, an apprentice risks no more than long hours and sleepless nights of study. In practice, apprentices put their lives on the line as much, if not more, than their masters. Dangerous assignments are delegated down the chain, even where ‘altruistic’ and ‘kind’ magi such as my son George are concerned. It is simply our way.”

His eyes stared at her harder now, trying to divine something. What they searched for was a mystery.

“When two agents are partnered so, risking their lives together, they develop a bond. Often this bond grows to entail self-sacrifice, or the willingness for that. This is a good thing. It is encouraged, lest all our magi become Delaurac in spirit.” He waved his hand, the Worthington signet flashing again.

“When that bond is also romantic, it tends to complicate the very important and unforgiving political structure of the nobility. If an apprentice is willing to die for the one they love, then the threat of being disowned or ridiculed becomes laughable. It is not something a young heart would even blink at. I believe Jeffrey is a good example. He is in so few things, but he is here.”

The words were frozen and emotionless.

“When Raoul reaches his next birthday, he will no longer be considered a ward under my estate. To call him a noble now would be ignorant. To call him a noble then would be simply foolish. You are well on your own path to becoming a noble. One with responsibilities as well as privileges.”

Amelia’s illusion did another somersault, this time towards Amavia. When she was done, she performed a magic trick by pulling a bouquet of brightly colored felt flowers out of her translucent lavender sleeves. They were cheap but fun and the illusion smiled widely. The Archmage ignored it as effortlessly as he was breathing.

“Whether or not you choose to become a Delaurac, I have already made plans to ensure Raoul does not end up a penniless commoner. He has a great deal of potential and once his spirit is reigned in, he will make a fine mage.” Odd that the Archmage should care so much about Raoul, but have no problem turning Jeffrey away into the streets, to have no qualms watching his starve penniless- to be less than even a commoner.

A great deal of potential.

Jeffrey had always sorely lacked that. Perhaps she would be reading too much into the words to think that. Or perhaps the world was as cold as the Archmage beside her, and Jeffrey really had been damned from the day he split his finger.

“May I inquire as to what sort of arrangements? He hasn’t voiced his concerns but I’ve had my share of them for him.” There were several arrangements she could think of off the top of her head and she smiled politely despite the sinking feeling in her chest.

Would they be fated to sizzle out so quickly after being together such a short time?

She longed to ask why he had given up on Jeffrey. To tell him how cruel it was of him. He hadn’t watched the boy who had been his son, if not in blood but by marriage and love, wither away into the monster he became. The starving, madman who sold parts of himself to cover his experiments.

Temper flared and she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. Eyes strayed to Amelia and she gave a weak smile at the trick. Would she find such light-hearted ease someday too? Or only in death too would she finally find ease from it all?

Maybe Jeffrey hadn’t been so addled in his choice.

“I must ask why you wish to know. Is it genuine curiosity, or is it in the hopes of hearing I am not marrying him off?”

The archmage regarded her coolly, still unimpressed by the illusion’s ‘magic’. The illusion reached out a hand and patted Amavia’s cheek softly, warmly. George was always better with illusions than he would ever let on. It felt like a real woman’s hand, like a loving woman’s hand. Amelia would have been a blessing in anyone’s life.

It made sense then that George had deliberately fallen short with the visuals of her illusions. To make it too powerful, too real, and he might never be able to leave. How many magi met their end that way? How many had both the skill and the heartache to wrap themselves in a seamless illusion and retreat from the world?

Amelia’s illusion gave a soft, understanding smile to the girl’s plight and she crouched down to be nearer. While not truly intelligent, the illusion was powerful enough that she could ‘reason’ through what she heard and react accordingly, react as the real Amelia would have. Right now, she wanted to be there for the girl her husband was making so uncomfortable.

Georgie, soften up a bit.

Amavia smiled at the illusion of the woman and her eyes closed briefly at the contact. It was a little soothing and though she knew it wasn’t real it was nice. For a moment she just looked at the apparition, smiling mutely and trying to collect herself to speak.

There was no tremble to her words as she spoke and she was thankful for that. “A mix of the two, sir. Raoul was teasing me that I’ll likely be married off to Light knows who and it isn’t a pleasant thought.”

Not when you already love someone else.

“You would not be the first to enter such a marriage. I do not believe they happen any other way in these times. Even in my youth, it was the norm. With society as upset and toppled as it is, I can only imagine tradition and structure are held in a terribly tight grasp. You will be engaged to someone. There is no question there. Could you live with that?”

He studied her. There was no need to try and comfort her with the fact that Amelia and his own marriage had been arranged. He had once remarked being tied down to such a frivolous girl was ‘not a pleasant thought’. Yet in the end it had been one of the sweetest and remarkable decades of his life.

Amavia did not need to hear those things because this was not, from his point of view, about her comfort. This was about her discipline. Her obedience. Her ambition. Would she do what was right and proper? Would she consider her future? Would she see that there were other ways of holding on to Raoul without sacrificing so much, setting herself back so far, as she had done with Jeffrey?

This was not a fairy tale where all the answers lead to bliss.

This was not a fairy tale at all.

“I don’t know, sir. I’m certainly not going to throw myself off Dalaran. That would be an utter waste. I suppose I can only pray that if I loathe them I can cleverly delay it as George seems to be or Light bless me, it be to someone I find at the least agreeable.”

He had not answered her question and in that she was certain her suspicions were correct. Raoul was a few years older and enough to worry that the Archmage would press for it sooner rather than later. Could she bear to think of his arms around another woman?

The swelling in her throat gave her the answer to that.

Maybe she would throw herself off Dalaran.

“Then we have come at last to the favor I would ask of you, and the favor I would grant.” He said plainly, eyes watching how the muscles in her throat flexed. Her comment about George went ignored for now, which was perhaps for the best. The Archmage had ruined lives for lesser affronts against George’s reputation, however deserved they might have been.

“Please, sir, tell me whichever one you desire to first.”

Tell me what the hell you want, you frozen old ass.

It was hard not to stomp or rage or at least make a snide comment but she actually managed a soft smile as she looked to him. A strand of hair fell across her eyes and she tucked it back quickly. It had a mind of its own, she was certain, and some days longed for it to be short again.

But at this length she felt more feminine. Though she didn’t find herself particularly comely it was soothing to know Raoul at the least did. She would have tacked George on that list but was there a person George didn’t find something attractive about?

Light, he’d probably compliment Deathwing’s ground breaking style.

The pun made her smile a little more firm, a little more honest, as she met his eyes again.

“If I were to arrange with your family, the Delauracs, your engagement to Raoul, would you consent to receiving such a favor? The dowry would be quite appealing and they would not be able to resist or decline the offer, I assure you. I am not a man to bribe another- this contract would be impossible for them to turn down without risking their own livelihood. As such, your consent is something I ask in advance. Jeffrey loved you. Loved you dearly. I do this at his final request of me alone.”

“I would happily consent, sir. Raoul is a wonderful, talented young man - if a bit stubborn - and someone I would be pleased to call my own.” She did not grin like a buffoon, her spirits brought considerably into check by his last words.

“I know he loved me very much. They were his final words and I, well, I thank you for looking out for me as he asked of you. You are much kinder than some would have me believe. Please, I know this is a hair inappropriate, but I think I adore you.” Were she a girl of lesser will she’d have thrown her arms around him and hugged him.

“And the other favor, sir?”

“I must sober your enthusiasm with the reminder that I am not doing this for you, Apprentice Hawkins.” He did not smile at her words. Light damn him, if he had not done it twice today already, it would be impossible to believe he was even capable of it. “When he was alive and embroiled in affairs beyond his control, he realized he would die one way or another. For all his pride, for all his hubris, he realized that. He asked me on the last night I saw him to twist your arm into a better marriage. Something that would take you out of his life, and him out of yours.”

If the archmage knew how to shrug, he would have then. “At the time, I was incapable of doing so. You were a commoner and there were no eligible matches on that level that I could have possibly forced into happening. He asked for help that I could not give him, and when he realized that, he even tried to kill me. I do not know what weight life holds with you, but I value my own and he valued mine as well.”

The archmage looked to his staff then, to the frost globe that had so easily rebuked Jeffrey’s desperate, half-mad attack. The staff that had so greatly injured the young, cursed, man as well.

“He wanted you to have security, even if that was without him. It is the kind of sacrifice that I did not think he was capable of. Beyond my regret that I could not help him then, I regret as well that the fel consumed him to the point where he could not simply walk away on his own. You had to be taken or it would... well, it did lead down the road that it did. Do you understand?”

“I think so, sir.” It was a soft reply and that smile she had worn had certainly been wiped off her face when the Archmage told her of that night. She knew it well too and now, knowing what he had asked of his father, she felt another pang of regret for what had become of Jeffrey-Ellis Sangrey.

We could have been so happy together, baby.

“I know that night well, he almost died. Light it was horrid...he was pursued by some of the strangest mages I’ve seen. George has a token of theirs I gave him. It was a grim evening and he never told me why you fought. I am sorry, sir, that I have caused so much strife in your life as well as his. I know there are so many other influences that pushed him that way but I was wrong in not trying to stop him sooner. Though,” She laced her fingers together and stared at the grass now. “he was so stubborn. Telling him no only made him want it all the more.”

“Like his mother in many ways, though I think his unwavering love even in the face of logic and reason, is something he must have inherited elsewhere. From his father, perhaps. Likely. If George’s suspicions are true, then that love was what took Lady Annabelle from me, and... ‘Lantern’ from you. It is an unfortunate cycle that one can only hope will end. It has little place in Dalaran.”

The illusion of Amelia frowned lightly and patted Amavia’s knee. A concerned, but hopeful!, look was given before she moved to sit on the long bench beside Amavia. Her fingers tried to pet the girl’s hair, to soothe without words that she could not speak.

“I do not fault you for what became of him. I do not fault Svafa Clarice Hawkins. I do not fault Line Whiteherald, nor do I fault Lady Annabelle for keeping father and son apart. Blame serves little purpose when the victim is dead, Apprentice Hawkins. There is room for justice, but I am not the one who can or should mete it out. Do not dwell on him as he died, or you may very well nullify the intention of his request. Security. ‘Happiness’, if you think he was sane enough to wish that for you.”

He drummed along the steely, silver bark of the staff.

Her head tilted slightly, allowing Amelia’s illusion to coddle her all she wished. It felt so nice and her mind wandered to a distant day her mother had done this. Svafa Clarice Hawkins was not a cold woman to her daughter - usually. Their house had been one of love and she had indeed been cherished as a child. Though her mother was a busy woman she’d found time to make her ‘baby girl’ feel special.

Special was not at all how she felt in her mother’s eyes now.

Would she ever look into those steely blue eyes again? Or would their next meeting be at a funeral?

And not necessarily that of Svafa. The Defias Brotherhood was tenacious and would have little issue snuffing out one upstart mage.

Her father, after all, had meet his end at the hands of one of them.

“I will not dwell, sir. I understand why he thought it was best and I will not ruin what he was so desperately trying for with tears and sulking.”

“Then we have an accord on that matter. There is then, left only the matter of your favor in return.” He did not look at her anymore, staring out across the grassy yard. It was a nice day, though storm clouds were not far away. They would not affect Dalaran, well, once in a blue moon they did but it was unlikely they would at any rate.

“Yes. What would you ask of me, sir?” She leaned just a hair closer towards Amelia and stole a quick look at her to smile. What had she sounded like? What was her laugh like? Surely she was a joyful person.

It was always a pity to think of such kind, happy people being taken from the world while other miserable sods were left behind.

Everything couldn’t be puppy dogs and rainbows but she hoped George wouldn’t mind if she came back to visit the illusion of his mother on occasion. Even though she was just that she was comforting.

“Perhaps to limit it to one favor would be short-selling what I ask of you, Apprentice Hawkins. It is a favor that comes in parts and will add to your fast-growing list of responsibilities.”

The reminder was careful, but honest.

“Ah, well I am eager to hear what these parts are.” The thoughts of other responsibilities, of what her family may force upon her once under their thumb weren’t so dark now. If Archmage Worthington insisted they would accept his proposal she believed him.

He didn’t seem a man who’d waste breath lying.

“As a favor owed for a favor granted, you will ensure your studies are not neglected. Your career, whatever your calling may actually be, will not be neglected. I will not enslave Raoul to obscure poverty.” He did look back now, his eyes intense. It was made quite clear in the look alone that he would deliver her to a fate worse than ‘obscure poverty’ if she allowed them to sink that low.

“Secondly, you will be responsible for keeping him in check. I do not have time to rescue him from every brawl and detention he incurs. I leave it to you to calm him, even if that means breaking him. It’s for the best.” The look could not have been more intense, or it would have become so then.

“Thirdly, you will not bear the Worthington name. No matter how he or George find the loopholes or press for it to be so, you give me your word now that this name and this signet shall never be yours. I cannot think of a greater insult to Jeffrey’s memory if you should take them by another man.” Archmage Worthington gestured with his hand then, allowing the elaborate, frosty signet to be seen in full detail. She had worn the signet once, but never the name.

If he had to end her and Raoul both he would see that it remained so.

“That said, you will strive to provide an heir. I care not when or how or by whom, those are matters between a husband and a wife. My son George has sired many, but none of them will live to carry on the name of Worthington. It is unfortunate, but I cannot control his mother’s blood and the illness he passes on because of it.” He pointed at her then.

“If I do this, if I provide you with this favor, you will be responsible for the continuation of the Worthington name. Raoul need not hold it, but the child must. I will accept no negotiation on the matter.” His hand returned to his lap and he exhaled.

“Lastly, I will ask a favor of you in the future. It will not be of a dire nature such as to kill, betray, or break the law. These are not things I would ever ask of you. As it stands, I would not need to ask, which you must realize. So what I will ask will be something I cannot enforce through superior ranking. I will rely on your word given now.”

At last he paused, sighing rather than exhaling again. “I wish to see you succeed, Amavia,” Her name was spoken lightly, tiredly. “I wish for you to be happy. That is not why I do this, it’s true, but I wish it all the same. I think I have spoken more words to you today than I spoke to Jeffrey in the entirety of his life. I have said more to you already than many others will ever hear of me. I am offering you no small gift by securing this. Raoul may be rough around the edges, but his potential and soon his fortune more than will make up for that.”

These favors he had asked of her had grown more and more confusing with each he spoke. Though her eyes never left his face and she somehow managed to keep a neutral, if not pleasant, expression her hands trembled slightly and they where hidden beneath her jacket in her lap.

“I am honored then in hearing them and consider myself very lucky. I will do all of these things. Nothing you ask of me is a burden, sir, and I will be happy to do them. Though, I must ask, what name should Raoul take? When his birthday comes he will no longer be your ward, correct? As I assume the engagement will not be a brief one he will need a surname in the mean time.”

Beneath her coat her hands steadied considerably and she almost smiled. Almost but not quite. “I would though be honored to have my child bear your name. If there is more than one shall the others as well?” Her hair tickled her cheek and she tucked it back while fixing her coat with the other. “I have met one of George’s children, Amria whom he told me to call Jenny. She is a sweet child.” A sweet, sick child who considering her grandmother’s illness would likely die.

It was a very sad thought that made the bubble of excitement burst.

“Also, sir, are you going to tell Raoul or shall I? I don’t think he will take the news as well as I. Nowhere near as well.”

“Amria Stillweaver, she is one of the older illegitimate children, yes. Her time is short, as is the time for all of George’s children. Perhaps, if anything worthwhile can be gleaned from the tragedies, it is that no heir will be regrettably expected from his marriage. Madame Russo is already suffering the backlash of building her foundations on the sands of expectation. Jeffrey’s decisions have left her and her granddaughter in ruins, and I would not wish the same on the Worthington name.”

He blinked at her then, possibly the first time he’d done so since he found her at the memorial. “I claim the firstborn so long as they are healthy. Perhaps that amendment must be made now to our agreement. The first healthy born child of your union. The paternity is of no consequence to me, as Raoul is not my blood to begin with.”

“You do not care if they are male or not? And sir, will I be able to help raise it? Or do you mean you wish it entirely?” The coat was shifted and the bag at her feet nudged by the toe of her boot. To think of giving something so hers up was just horrid.

It sounded like a deal one would make with a demon.

“How is it that George isn’t sickly then? Is there hope that he may not pass it on or are all of them doomed?” There were two presents for Amria in her satchel though she doubted the Archmage would approve of either of them.

There were so few things he seemed to approve of.

“My son George is a carrier. There is a small, insignificant chance that one of his children could be the same. However, that does not provide anymore hope for the Worthington line. If not that child, then its own child. It is unfortunate but a reality I will not ignore. I cannot stop him from losing his children anymore than I can stop him from having them in the first place.”

He drummed on the staff again.

“That said, I wish the child to live at a Worthington estate and be raised indeed as a Worthington. They will be tutored under Master Twizzlewand as Jeffrey was expected to be, or another suitable mage if Master Twizzlewand is unfortunately deceased. These are paltry demands for the earth I am shaking on your behalf. I would remind you that nobility is not a luxury, Amavia.”

“I am not objecting! I just wanted to make sure I was in complete understanding of your requests so as to not be surprised later. Nor am I upset by them whatsoever, I hope I didn’t come across as if I were. Master Twizzlewand is fantastic and I’d be honored to have a child I birthed study beneath him. May I see the child though? Or are we to not have any contact? I can see valid reason for both and only want clarity on this aspect as well.”

She was proud of her even tone and demeanor as she spoke and smiled faintly at the mention of Master Twizzlewand.

“You do not care which gender? I only assumed a male to carry on the name and not worry about this in a few years again. And, sir, are we waiting till the engagement is ironed out with my family who hasn’t even realized I exist yet to tell Raoul?”

“The gender is unimportant. It can be arranged for her husband, should it be a female, to take our name. I do not gamble in uncertainties, Amavia. The Delauracs will be informed immediately of your ‘existence’ and the proper legalities will be taken care of. Knowing your talent and disposition, I do not think they will even question if you are truly one of their own.”

He continued to drum on the staff, thinking about something.

“It is preferable if contact is minimum. I know not the extent of your tortures under Jeffrey, but my son George has kept me very well informed as he ought to. I know of your surgery and the results of it. I know of Raoul’s tortures, explicitly, under Valerie Starlet. You should both count yourselves fortunate I did not request a different sire because of that. Perhaps in time my opinion will change, concerning you at least.”

He nodded curtly to no one in particular. “While your soul could never be pure after what he’s done, there is hope for it to at least be relatively whole. And while Raoul’s soul is not something I’m aware has been damaged, there are too many irreparable faults in his system to allow him to be with the child for prolonged periods.”

In a strange, unexpected way, his tone softened. “I know it may seem- I know that it is harsh, Amavia. I know that it is not fair on you or him, but it is what it is. In exchange you will both be granted your educations, opportunities, titles, and each other. Even if he does not love you, for that is something I confess I do not know the truth of, he is still better off with you than someone else. I can see that much at least.”

“Life is not often fair and we must do our best to cope with the unexpected. I did not anticipate our conversation taking the turn it did but I am grateful for it. I know you will be good to the child and it will be awarded opportunities as well. I am happy you would allow us to see it at all.”

Light, Raoul was going to kill her.

“Am I to wait on telling him? Would you prefer to tell him yourself? He may not believe me as an adverse effect of Jeffrey’s work are what he thinks are hallucinations. They are not that whatsoever and I’m told with enough effort at spiritual mending I will be fine soon. Never whole, no, but better than I was before the surgery.”

Shyly she glanced down at his staff and stared at the silvery bark. “Thank you too, for thinking we’d be a good match. I will strive to keep him secure and safe. Lest I incur your wrath.”

Now she did not smile and nodded at him instead. She knew very well that she would be worse off than that disintegrated newspaper if she failed in her promises.

“What if Raoul will not agree though? He is stubborn and I’m not sure he would want this. Marriage that is.”

“He does not have a choice in the matter. He will marry who I tell him to, a lesson he has had ample time to learn and accept. He knew he would not marry Valerie Starlet either, not so long as he was my ward, and as far as I know he made no plans to flee from my graces then. Of course, I am not all-knowing. It is a circumstance that will be dealt with should it arise.”

The archmage stood then, almost leaving her repeated question unanswered a second time.

“You will tell him. My son George and I will validate your statements should he come to us in disbelief. If you are to be his wife, then you will have to be bold in speaking with him. The engagement will be announced the second week after your formal adoption. I cannot promise its exact length. Perhaps years, more if he is... stubborn about it. Do not disappoint me, Amavia.”

Without goodbye and without waiting for a reply, he left then. Never once did he look back at her or at the Illusion that was now patting her leg excitedly.

A wedding!

Amelia had always loved weddings, her own especially. Even if Georgie had never smiled during the entire event.

Though he did not look back or wait on her to speak she did, soft enough for just her and the happy illusion.

“I will not, sir.”

No wonder Jeffrey had been such a serious, stern young man. Who wouldn’t be under the watchful eyes of the Archmage? A stab of pity wrenched her heart and she absently tried to pat the illusion back.

“I’m sorry that your grand children are sick, ma’am. I think Amria would have adored you! Then again, who wouldn’t? You’re so nice and you aren’t even speaking!” Amavia smiled brightly and gave a girlish giggle, leaning in as if she was sharing a very important secret with Amelia.

“Raoul is going to flip his very poorly attached lid. I hope I can phrase it in a manner he finds acceptable. He does love me after all.”