controversial theory was easier to digest than the alternative.
Xander was right. Your mind is fascinating, indeed. He succeeded in catching her eye, now stripped down to a pair of shorts. Her cheeks bloomed with color and her eyes darted to her lap, as if finding something decidedly important there. He could not read her thoughts. Apparently, her walls had snapped in place out of reflex. He had to admit, he was immensely impressed, and only slightly disappointed.
"You're being sneaky," she said.
"Not sneaky, playful perhaps." His smile lit up the room as he got into the bed with her.
"If I wasn't so scared to sleep alone, I'd make you sleep upstairs."
His smile vanished instantly. Again, she saw it, that element of danger in him. It was the protector in him. He had the tenacity of a guard dog and she knew without doubt that nothing would harm her so long as he was near her. She realized her guard was up and released it again. It would do her no good to protect herself from her protector.
I do not want you to be afraid. I promise I shall take care of you. It was his responsibility to look after her. It was only fair. It was his fault she was scared, and he understood. It had been long ago when he entered this life, but the memory would never fade away.
He led her through his thoughts back to a simpler time. It was late that night when he walked the cobblestone street towards home. It was brisk, so he pulled his collar up close to his ears. The festivities had all died down now. Le Mardi Gras was over. Just another year, he thought. He had not been out celebrating with the rest of them. He was still in mourning. Just over a year ago, his wife had died in childbirth. Sadly, his son had died a month later of consumption. This was a grim season for him, and he secretly despised Paris for being so happy.
He made the lonely walk home through the dark city streets. An eerie fog was beginning to descend over the land. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He felt he was being watched. His hand slid to the sword at his hip. His soldier's instincts bringing him to a defensive stance. He was quick, but not nearly fast enough. The wind was knocked cleanly out of his chest with the sheer force of impact and his vision blurred as his head collided with the cobblestone. His sword had made contact with what felt like a brick wall.
Pain shot through his neck and he felt his heart quicken with adrenaline. He smelled blood. His head was swimming and his limbs were growing cold. With his last ounce of strength, he pushed up against the force holding him down. The weight lifted off of his chest. All he could see were vague shadows.
A voice filled his head. You're a strong one, you are . It was a strong, deep voice. Your sword left quite a sting in my side . I think I will share a gift with you .
As his heart began to falter, something warm pressed against his lips. He cringed at the metallic taste at first, but it was so warm, and he was so cold. He began to drink the bitter tasting liquid and it warmed him. He felt his strength return and his vision began to clear. His head was no longer throbbing. A man was kneeling over him. The man pulled his wrist away from his mouth as his body started to convulse. Pain wracked his body and he felt himself dying. He would see his son and his wife soon. He waited for death to take him, welcomed it. He felt his heart stop. Soon.
Then, nothing. He took a breath, but his heart was still and silent. Anger and disappointment flooded over him, filled his mind, and he could think of nothing else. He rose to his feet, intending to lash out at this stranger. He raised his fist and swung, but the stranger caught his hand easily.
You have much to learn, young ward.
The man was dressed like an aristocrat, his powdered white wig announcing his rank. He was poised, dignified. He looked to be in his early 40's, but his eyes spoke of wisdom far beyond that many years. A sense of calm washed over him
Xander was right. Your mind is fascinating, indeed. He succeeded in catching her eye, now stripped down to a pair of shorts. Her cheeks bloomed with color and her eyes darted to her lap, as if finding something decidedly important there. He could not read her thoughts. Apparently, her walls had snapped in place out of reflex. He had to admit, he was immensely impressed, and only slightly disappointed.
"You're being sneaky," she said.
"Not sneaky, playful perhaps." His smile lit up the room as he got into the bed with her.
"If I wasn't so scared to sleep alone, I'd make you sleep upstairs."
His smile vanished instantly. Again, she saw it, that element of danger in him. It was the protector in him. He had the tenacity of a guard dog and she knew without doubt that nothing would harm her so long as he was near her. She realized her guard was up and released it again. It would do her no good to protect herself from her protector.
I do not want you to be afraid. I promise I shall take care of you. It was his responsibility to look after her. It was only fair. It was his fault she was scared, and he understood. It had been long ago when he entered this life, but the memory would never fade away.
He led her through his thoughts back to a simpler time. It was late that night when he walked the cobblestone street towards home. It was brisk, so he pulled his collar up close to his ears. The festivities had all died down now. Le Mardi Gras was over. Just another year, he thought. He had not been out celebrating with the rest of them. He was still in mourning. Just over a year ago, his wife had died in childbirth. Sadly, his son had died a month later of consumption. This was a grim season for him, and he secretly despised Paris for being so happy.
He made the lonely walk home through the dark city streets. An eerie fog was beginning to descend over the land. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He felt he was being watched. His hand slid to the sword at his hip. His soldier's instincts bringing him to a defensive stance. He was quick, but not nearly fast enough. The wind was knocked cleanly out of his chest with the sheer force of impact and his vision blurred as his head collided with the cobblestone. His sword had made contact with what felt like a brick wall.
Pain shot through his neck and he felt his heart quicken with adrenaline. He smelled blood. His head was swimming and his limbs were growing cold. With his last ounce of strength, he pushed up against the force holding him down. The weight lifted off of his chest. All he could see were vague shadows.
A voice filled his head. You're a strong one, you are . It was a strong, deep voice. Your sword left quite a sting in my side . I think I will share a gift with you .
As his heart began to falter, something warm pressed against his lips. He cringed at the metallic taste at first, but it was so warm, and he was so cold. He began to drink the bitter tasting liquid and it warmed him. He felt his strength return and his vision began to clear. His head was no longer throbbing. A man was kneeling over him. The man pulled his wrist away from his mouth as his body started to convulse. Pain wracked his body and he felt himself dying. He would see his son and his wife soon. He waited for death to take him, welcomed it. He felt his heart stop. Soon.
Then, nothing. He took a breath, but his heart was still and silent. Anger and disappointment flooded over him, filled his mind, and he could think of nothing else. He rose to his feet, intending to lash out at this stranger. He raised his fist and swung, but the stranger caught his hand easily.
You have much to learn, young ward.
The man was dressed like an aristocrat, his powdered white wig announcing his rank. He was poised, dignified. He looked to be in his early 40's, but his eyes spoke of wisdom far beyond that many years. A sense of calm washed over him
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