Fourth Arc (Thorns of The Black Throne) - 421. Fragile
"Or would you prefer the palace maids to do it instead?" she added innocently, voice teasing, but her eyes fixed on him—dark and calm, reading every flicker in his posture.
Angel scoffed, his head tilting just enough to meet her gaze. "You really think I'd let them see me like this?"
She hummed under her breath, dragging the cloth gently across his shoulder blades. "Didn't think so. I've already claimed this version of you anyway."
He didn't answer. But he didn't pull away either.
The bath chamber was dimly lit, steam curling in soft waves around them as Rose filled the marble basin with warm water and scented oils—faint jasmine, bitter myrrh, and something colder. Like the edge of a dream.
Angel unbuckled his swordbelt, placed it gently on the stand. Then paused.
Rose stepped behind him and unfastened his shoulder guards. Slowly. Gently. Her touch was steady but deliberate—like she wasn't just peeling off armor, but years of weight he hadn't realized he still carried.
She ran her fingertips briefly along the back of his shoulders. His muscles tensed—out of instinct more than discomfort—but he didn't stop her.
"I'm not fragile," he said after a moment.
"I know."
"I've survived worse than Erebus."
"I know that too."
He turned slightly, catching her hand. His grip was light, but his eyes weren't.
"You're not just someone I need to protect," he said. "But I can't… I can't be reckless with you. Not like that."
Her expression softened. She reached up and touched the side of his jaw, where stubble had grown in unevenly during his time away.
"I didn't fall in love with you because you're careful."
He tilted his head. "No?"
"I fell in love with you because you're an idiot who thinks carrying the world alone makes you strong."
Angel let out a quiet, reluctant chuckle. "That's rude."
"That's the truth."
He sighed and leaned forward slightly. Their foreheads nearly touched.
"I just needed to try it alone first. I needed to see if I could handle what's waiting."
"And?"
He closed his eyes.
"I don't know. It felt like the mountain was laughing at me."
She didn't say anything.
She didn't have to.
Steam curled around them like a waiting silence. The scent of herbs from the bathwater—lavender, juniper, something darker beneath—rose between their breaths.
Angel sat with his arms resting on the rim of the bath, body tense, jaw set.
Rose knelt beside him, dipped the cloth into the hot water, and wrung it out slowly. Then she brought it to his back.
She pressed the cloth to his shoulder and began to move in slow, steady strokes. The grime of his trek—the dust of cursed paths and dead winds—lifted gently, washed away by her patient care.
He didn't move. Didn't speak.
Just breathed.
Her hand slid down his back, across the curve of his spine, careful but firm. She checked for bruises, even though she already knew he wouldn't complain. Her fingertips found no open wounds, but they lingered on the tension—knots of stress buried beneath muscle and silence.
She dipped the cloth again, then smoothed it along his arm. Down to his forearm. His wrist. She took his hand in hers, palm to palm, and gently wiped away the dirt caught in the lines.
"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, voice low. Not demanding. Just… present.
Angel let out a breath—too long, too slow, like he hadn't realized he'd been holding it since he got back.
"No," he said finally.
Rose didn't argue. She just nodded faintly, picked up the cloth again, and continued bathing him. Quiet. Gentle. Like she was trying to calm a storm, not with words—but with presence.
A beat.
"But I might need to," he added.
"When you're ready."
Another silence. Deeper now.
"You said you're not fragile," he murmured after a while.
She smiled faintly. "I'm not."
He looked at her. Really looked.
"I believe you. But still…"
She leaned forward and kissed his temple. Her lips were soft. Warm. Real.
"…I know," she whispered against his skin.
He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
Then, quieter than before—"Just stay here a while."
"I will."
Angel closed his eyes.
Not to escape.
Just to feel her hand against his skin. Her breath beside his ear.
Not every darkness was cruel.
Some, like this, were just quiet enough to rest in.
And he needed that.
Even kings did.
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