my rock, my shield

rainy day musings

Tartaglia watches the rain.

--

"I have to wonder what outside captures your attention so raptly?"

Tartaglia hadn't even realized he'd been staring. Morax leans a shoulder against the wall, right next to the window. His hair is down and frames his face. He wears one of Tartaglia's discarded shirts and a loose robe that pools around his shoulders, dressed down in a way that steals Tartaglia's breath.

"It doesn't really rain in Snezhnaya, you know."

"Oh?" Morax's head tilts in genuine curiosity. "Isn't it a dreary place?"

"In a frozen wasteland sort of way. It's too cold to rain, it just blizzards instead." Tartaglia's gaze slides to Morax. "Haven't you been there?"

A soft laugh. "Eons ago, or have you forgotten? With time climates change—"

"It's always been that way." Morax's eyes dance with mirth. Tartaglia snorts. "You. Always with the teasing, hm?"

"It has become a favorite pastime as of late." Morax crosses his arms over his chest, his entire posture relaxed. "As is watching you. When you're worried you get this little wrinkle between your brow and I must confess that it is cute."

"I—I don't—" A soft huff tumbles from Tartaglia's lips. "I am not worried," he finishes lamely.

Morax waits for a beat before responding, letting the silence sink into their bones. And then he says, "You know that I can smell a lie, correct?"

He means no judgment, only to be honest with him. Tartaglia sighs softly as he leans against the windowsill, watching the rain drip from the sky. "It is only a matter of time before she figures it out."

"Ah."

"She'll call me home and when she does, she'll know."

"Mhm."

Tartaglia rubs at his wrist idly, thumbing over those healed teeth marks. He remembers the way that Morax's teeth slid into the skin there effortlessly, drinking his fell as their oaths sealed into place. Maybe Tartaglia is a fool. It isn't a mistake—never—but anxiety tugs at his being because the Tsaritsa is not a forgiving woman.

It falls quiet again. They listen to the drip drip of water from the roof as it splatters against the stonework of the palace. There is an old story Tartaglia once read; Morax crafted this very place with his hands, laying every stone into place, a love poem to his very people. They would look upon his home and feel safe.

Tartaglia does. He feels safe for the first time in his life despite the concern that breeds in his breast.

"Do you remember what you said that day you swore fealty to me?"

Tartaglia said a lot of things, all of them childish idealism, and wishes and promises that he isn't sure he'll be able to keep. And then there is a thought, one that's plagued him since before he even set foot into these lands, stuck in his mind even aboard a ship rising and falling on the sea.

She sent me to my doom.

Tartaglia is no fool; Morax's favor or not, the Tasritsa still chose him for a mission to a dying land. Morax knows it's mostly a matter of delaying the inevitable. The evil of those old, embittered gods spoil his lands and there is little to actually be done about it.

"Do you wonder what the point of it is?"

Morax's mouth parts at the unexpected question. He presses his palm against his chin as he thinks of an appropriate answer. "By this, I assume you mean everything. What a question, Ajax."