If He Was Your Fan (A Henry Cavill Fanfic)

Part 73: Tarnish

Shit.

Fuck.

Shit.

I suddenly can't find her, and I realize where I have to go. Trent.

This is what I get for listening to my manager. She suggested that I meet with Lara Winters regarding my Warhammer dreams. I'd actually played with her online, but I didn't know she was DecheLaran. Blending the names of a heroic and an evil Warhammer character with her own fascinated me. And when my manager gave me a chance to meet her?

I should have told her! I should have told her!

But did I have to meet for tea?

It is sociable, I told myself. But as our conversation evolved, it felt like blind date. And I didn't mention my romantic life at all. Lara didn't either, but she kept suggesting we meet again since we had similar interests, especially in gaming.

Did I have to put us in a quiet corner? Did I? Why?

And I knew deep down when my love caught Lara and me. She smiled even though I saw a sad shine in her eyes. And when she returned to her table and resumed her day with her friends, my heart sank. She was composed and of grace, making me feel so far from my line that I lost my appetite. I heard her laugh, and it stood out, like mine must have stood.

What am I doing and why?

"I don't think I can do this anymore," I tell her.

"I know they are steering from the Witcher books even more, but—"

"I just can't."

She sighs. "I know."

"You understand?"

"Of course, I do," she puts her arms around me. "I'm a writer. I would be very upset if someone did that to something I'd written, especially if many people had read it and liked it. You are a reader, a lover of stories, so you would take it equally as badly. The only reason they are doing it is because the author is not there to fight for his story."

I hug her. "Thank you."

I was getting asked by those of my station what I was thinking. Because she lived in Brixton, everyone thought she and I were over, though no statement had been made, and I forbade my personal life to be a subject of discussion in interviews. In Cov-Id no one really knew or cared, everyone assumed, and they all probably thought she—no, we--wouldn't have made it so long.

When I met with the Dwayne, I saw his look of WTF? when he saw her. He raised an eyebrow at me, and I gave a small smile. She busied herself playing with his children who loved her energy, and making nice with his wife. When we sat for lunch, she was a little quieter than usual, and I spotted her glancing around the table. I put my arm around her, and she smiled gratefully. Dwayne's eyebrow quirked, and his wife put her hand on his, offering a gentle smile.

And then after being crushed by the media and my fans, I was upset, and I wasn't sure what to do as she looked saddened. I didn't know if I should comfort her or if I should tell her to buck up, because this is how it really is, she had to know. They researched her-her humble beginnings, downplayed her triumphs that I knew of personally, which is impressive when she essentially was classified a commoner, and an American one at that. My mother supported my choice, liked her. My brothers only asked if I was happy, and their wives the same. She loved children, so my nephews and nieces liked her, too, though admittedly were intrigued by the difference of her features. My niece asked if she could touch her hair, and I thought I'd die, but she simply bowed her head and let her, and then asked her to open her eyes wide so she could see how blue they were. "You and I are earth and sky. Your eyes are like the sky, mine are like the trees, but we're still in the same world."