He would not spiral.
He’d been prone to mental weakness at one point. Forced to remain behind the evergreen walls and blacked-out curtains for nearly an entire year with minimal interaction with the outside world, Raphael had gone days where he hardly remembered the calendar date. He’d stared at clocks for hours on end while bedridden after experimental treatments with contracted curse-breakers, played the same short tune on the piano for hours at time until his footman had spooked him from his stupor.
This was another type of weakness altogether.
It had been too long since he’d gazed upon the violent glint in Yaxley’s ebony eyes. Even longer since he’d seen her struggle to fight a smile. The promise that he would see her here, tonight, was one of the only things carrying him through this otherwhile banal day. She’d always been prompt—too prompt, if you’d have asked him a year and a half ago—but here he stood, standing in the middle of a room that was so thoroughly Yaxley, without any idea if the woman herself would make an appearance.
And somehow, despite the anger he’d felt at her initial icy reception, and all the frustration her unwillingness to easily forgive him had caused, he couldn’t find it in his heart to blame her. He knew this was his doing. He’d been the one to leave—however unwilling—without notifying her. It was him who had taken her to his bed, him who had alluded to promises he hadn’t kept. If she hated him, he couldn’t blame her, and that perhaps made him the angriest of all.
He forced himself to move from his spot in the middle of the room, his eyes seeking out the nearest and most accessible object. The shack had been filled with all sorts of trinkets and mismatched furnishings, but somehow it felt more spacious than before. His good sense rebelled at the sight of silver figurines placed atop gold-painted dishes, only to be replaced by a tightness in his chest upon picking it up. She’d held it once, just like this, and she’d decided to put it here. He couldn’t smell her or sense her magic, but he knew she’d been the one to do this.
“Nobody else has such terrible taste,” he muttered, placing the little figurine (which looked like it was supposed to be a dormouse, except the painted design was so appalling that it made it hard to make out the details) back on the shelf. He went to pick up the next figurine (another equally appalling animal-shaped object), but just as his fingertip grazed atop one of the bumpy ridges, he heard the door creak.
His whole body jolted at the noise, his heart nearly beating out of his chest. His hand knocked into one of the figurines as it turned, causing it to land with a jarring thump on the shelf.
He didn’t care, though. He didn’t even turn back to look at it. She was here.
“Rowan,” he said hazily, her given name slipping off his tongue for the first time in too long. She looked like she was just out of work. Hair pinned up nearly, robes swallowing her whole. She was perfect. He cleared his throat and forced himself to stand straighter—something that didn’t come as naturally to him nowadays. “I thought you weren’t coming.”
He’d been prone to mental weakness at one point. Forced to remain behind the evergreen walls and blacked-out curtains for nearly an entire year with minimal interaction with the outside world, Raphael had gone days where he hardly remembered the calendar date. He’d stared at clocks for hours on end while bedridden after experimental treatments with contracted curse-breakers, played the same short tune on the piano for hours at time until his footman had spooked him from his stupor.
This was another type of weakness altogether.
It had been too long since he’d gazed upon the violent glint in Yaxley’s ebony eyes. Even longer since he’d seen her struggle to fight a smile. The promise that he would see her here, tonight, was one of the only things carrying him through this otherwhile banal day. She’d always been prompt—too prompt, if you’d have asked him a year and a half ago—but here he stood, standing in the middle of a room that was so thoroughly Yaxley, without any idea if the woman herself would make an appearance.
And somehow, despite the anger he’d felt at her initial icy reception, and all the frustration her unwillingness to easily forgive him had caused, he couldn’t find it in his heart to blame her. He knew this was his doing. He’d been the one to leave—however unwilling—without notifying her. It was him who had taken her to his bed, him who had alluded to promises he hadn’t kept. If she hated him, he couldn’t blame her, and that perhaps made him the angriest of all.
He forced himself to move from his spot in the middle of the room, his eyes seeking out the nearest and most accessible object. The shack had been filled with all sorts of trinkets and mismatched furnishings, but somehow it felt more spacious than before. His good sense rebelled at the sight of silver figurines placed atop gold-painted dishes, only to be replaced by a tightness in his chest upon picking it up. She’d held it once, just like this, and she’d decided to put it here. He couldn’t smell her or sense her magic, but he knew she’d been the one to do this.
“Nobody else has such terrible taste,” he muttered, placing the little figurine (which looked like it was supposed to be a dormouse, except the painted design was so appalling that it made it hard to make out the details) back on the shelf. He went to pick up the next figurine (another equally appalling animal-shaped object), but just as his fingertip grazed atop one of the bumpy ridges, he heard the door creak.
His whole body jolted at the noise, his heart nearly beating out of his chest. His hand knocked into one of the figurines as it turned, causing it to land with a jarring thump on the shelf.
He didn’t care, though. He didn’t even turn back to look at it. She was here.
“Rowan,” he said hazily, her given name slipping off his tongue for the first time in too long. She looked like she was just out of work. Hair pinned up nearly, robes swallowing her whole. She was perfect. He cleared his throat and forced himself to stand straighter—something that didn’t come as naturally to him nowadays. “I thought you weren’t coming.”
set by lady <3