Thread: ~Clash~

Mireio had become, if not exactly inured to the gloom of passing through the crypt, at least a little used to it. She told herself that she meant no disrespect to her ancestors, and so even if their shades inhabited this place, they should have no cause to trouble her. But the pall never entirely vanished no matter how many times she dared the quiet passage, and hearing the prisoner state it so plainly whisked away the veil of pretending otherwise. There was simply no other way out, so she swallowed and held tight to his hand as she led them through. When he accepted her little speech with nothing but a smile, she found herself mildly nonplussed. Did that mean he agreed, or--if he was some creature of the pit--that he was laughing at her foolish pride? She wasn't sure how to read him, even less so when he slipped through the opening and started up the stairs beyond. But Mireio disliked to waver too far once she had set a course, so after a moment she shrugged and started up behind him. When he looked back, he would see her silhouetted in the vanishing light of the lamps, as she pulled the entrance of their hideaway closed behind them. Then the sound of her footsteps coming up, before she bumped gently against him in the dark with a soft exclamation. She realized then that she could hear him breathing hard, and she felt a wave of fresh sympathy that further eroded any more prudent distrust. He was lost, and alone, and she had made herself responsible for him by her actions. Here, she said quietly, reaching out carefully in the blackness until her questing hand found the unruly tumble of his hair. Her fingertips passed lightly over the curve of his head, down to his shoulder, and with that navigation she stooped to draw his arm over her own shoulders and half-hug him for support. Just a few more steps, she said as she straightened, trying to lend him the energy that her slender but healthy frame could offer. Slowly, they worked their way up the winding stair, which seemed longer than it ever had before. Finally, more stone instead of air met her periodic probing ahead, and her arm tightened slightly around his back. We made it, she whispered, excited both by that success and the illicit closeness of helping a strange young man up the steps. She felt her cheeks warm and was glad for the dimness that hid the blush, even as she felt about for the lever that would bring more light. She found it and leaned her shoulder forward to push, and as below a section of apparently solid stone swung aside with only the faintest grinding. The room that waited beyond was dimly lit, only a single lamp turned low on a table next to the bed. The bed was four-poster and curtained, a richly formal thing that testified they were officially out of the catacombs. The rest of the furniture was similarly well-appointed, all elegantly carved hardwoods and velvet draperies, a chair and a small shelf of precious books and a sizeable wardrobe. But her focus was on the bed, where she helped him to sit--or fall--before hurrying back to close the last door behind them. Are you all right? she asked, turning back and coming near to lean over and look at him. I'm sorry, I didn't think the climb would be so bad. Her expression was anxious, marred slightly by a smudge of soot on one side of her nose.