Interlude [h.s]

seventy-nine

In a single movement, Harry frees himself from Alouette's embrace and spins them around so that she's standing in front of him. "Why?" he demands, his grip tight on her shoulders.

She can't look into his eyes. Her gaze wanders beyond him, to the darkened window. A ray of light is peeking through a corner, where the tape was scratched off. "I just can't," she forces herself to say. "The Revolution is my home. I was always supposed to be here, not..."

"That's bullshit." Harry interrupts her so suddenly that she jolts. He lets go of her, as if the lie has stung him. He closes his eyes, just for a moment, collecting himself before continuing in an even tone. "I refuse to believe you. You don't wish to stay here."

"Don't tell me what I want to do! You don't know anything—"

He freezes her with his gaze. "I know you better than you know yourself, Alouette." The name stings coming from his lips. "Do you know why?" He takes a step forward, she takes one backward. "It's because I know that look on your face. You got a taste of what it means to call the shots, and now you will not settle. You will not bow your head to Ezra's will again. He isn't enough to hold you down, and you know it." His lips curve in a humourless smile. "So don't tell me you want to stay, because staying here would mean burying yourself alive."

"And you would be better?" Alouette realises she's raised her voice a moment too late. "What makes you think I'd be happy to obey you instead?"

Harry doesn't seem shaken by the threat. He straightens his pose and observes her for a long moment, tilting his head, as if he's silently evaluating her. "I must've given you the wrong impression, and for that I apologise." His voice is eerily calm. "I do enjoy seeing you do your thing, and I wish nothing more than to encourage it. However—" he steps closer to her, "—don't make the mistake of forgetting whom you're talking to. While I will let you run free, I will not accept any threat to my position coming from you."

Alouette flinches. "I didn't mean—"

Harry puts on his shirt at last. "I do hope you didn't." His tone is conversational, now. "I still thought it would be opportune to remark it, since I know how these things go. My point is, my will is something you'll never be free of, no matter where you are. I'm simply offering you a chance to shorten the chain of command above you—besides, it would be downright insulting for you to submit to Ezra, especially after all you did to escape him."

Alouette bites her tongue, because Harry's right. She isn't foolish enough to believe she could overtake him, and she doesn't even think she wants to. As long as he lives he will stand above her, and she's going to try her best to make sure he lives for a very long time still. No, she's never desired a country, nor the Revolution—she merely wants the power to choose. She wants to choose who she wants to be, what she wants to do, what she wants to stand for, and that's what Harry's offering her. He doesn't want her around as an assistant, or a secretary. He will not order her around—he hasn't done so in a long time. He wants her around because he can offer her shelter and freedom, because being around him doesn't make her anyone's servant. His authority permeates the country from the top of the Palace to its darkest nooks and corners. Having only him above her is the closest thing to freedom she could ever hope to have. And it's tempting. It's so tempting.

But she's made a promise.

"It's not about Ezra—" Her voice dies out. She could get angry, she should shout at him and make him back off, because everything sounds better than having to tell him the truth. What would Harry know about promises, about trust, about caring? She's seen the Palace—there's little love in it. It's a lion's den, and everyone is constantly ready to strike. She's done her job to corrupt the little in it that wasn't already ruined beyond recognition. There's secrets, there's lies, there's threats, there's power. That's the language Harry speaks. How could he understand anything other than that? Someone that kills a man without a second thought will never understand what it means to care so deeply you have to give up your desires in favour of someone else's—and it hurts. It hurts to know that, despite how close they are, there will always be that crack between them, a crack that runs so deep, so far back, that she fears it will never be filled. But she's not a child, and neither is Harry. Arguing is pointless, and he would be able to tell she doesn't mean it. "I made a promise," she whispers.