You’re holding back. 

He cannot run. Everyone in this room is dazzled by you and disappointed in him. You have every means and opportunity to break his heart like a stale twig, and yet, you put no strength into your blows to actually follow through with it. With one hand, you restrain yourself, and with the other, you offer fleeting gifts; of wisdom, of hard-won experience, of glimpses of something beneath the name Praetor.

You’re holding back. But wounds do not have to be fatal to matter. Perhaps you know this? Perhaps you don’t. It’s so hard to tell. It’s so hard, when the only eyes he has are his own. When the only heart he has still bleeds. It hurts. It just. Hurts.

He moves to set his teacup down, then, thinking better of it, shakes his head and cups it in both hands. The warmth seeps through his aching fingers. 

“Will it really make you,” 

You turn the Auspex on him, and he wilts. No Captain. No ram of war. Just a tired sheep. Asking a guest to please repeat their order. 

“Will it really make you happy, if I admit that I hate you?” 

But you don’t get a chance to respond, do you? Your Princess is here, Praetor. Look sharp. See, the Captain of the Plousious lifts himself up at her presence, and those not entranced by dreams might chide him for how shamefully shallow he bows. But no one could fault him for how ready his answer comes.

“We’re just getting acquainted.”