The man’s moment of reflection after she had rejected his offer for a drink was somewhat unsettling. Sitting, beside him, she watched the hard profile of his face as he regarded the drink in his hands -- a small, frail bottle within the grip of large and meaty fingers. And it was so much like a dance, the way disappointment touched the corners of his mouth and then a light, and nearly cheerful resolution. He was going through something within the expanse of those few moments, something that was perhaps profound, or could just as easily be absolutely meaningless. 

She would never know. 

He screwed the top back onto the bottle he was holding and set it down. Golden eyes narrowed at the display, and her brows pinched in the study of the creation he had suddenly busied himself with making. A line of bottles, all different sizes and colors, and all of them lined up prettily before them. She wanted to comment on the quantity of alcohol he had on hand, but could not think of a way to say anything without sounding judgmental. 

Salvador was going through something and she would never know what it was.

He turned then, his large head on his stocky neck, and regarded her with his kindly eyes. She was momentarily caught off guard under the weight of his regard but managed to produce a small, timid smile. She didn’t have much to offer -- really, she had nothing to offer. But kindness cost her nothing, save the ache in her chest that felt like a warning that misunderstood intentions could kill. 

He looked a bit more peaceful after that. Maybe the discarded weight of the bottles was a relief -- or maybe it was the fact that she was keeping him company. 

We’re such wounded things, all of us… 

She looked away, back up at the night sky, back to the black expanses of the abyss and the twinkling stars that tried, in vain, to light up the darkness. 

[i]“Ah, it’s nothing. Just felt a brief sense of inspiration.”[/i]

Fortunately, she wasn’t looking his way and so she didn’t see the sudden longing in his eyes -- that desire to compare her to ‘a summer's day' -- a darling bud of May. It would have been a disservice to him, to have her think him so vapid. Rather, she carried in her heart the belief that goodness still existed in the hearts of men, and that art could be conjured from the imagination of those who worshiped beauty. She needed to believe that. 

“It’s not nothing,” she replied, still lost in her star-gazing, “it’s everything -- really.” 

On her lap, a wayward thumb stroked a metallic flower petal. 

[i]“Well, since these may very well be newly discovered stars, what say we give them our own names?”[/i] Salvator seemed to have noticed her disconnection from their current moment, for which she felt somewhat embarrassed. She looked at him, that same hint of pink -- just a dusting of the color -- touching her cheek. [i]“See those ones? They look almost like a cat, don’t they? We could call it the Felid constellation, or well… I’ve never been good at picking out names.”[/i]

She followed the direction where he pointed and saw the grouping of stars he referred to. It struck her as odd, at that moment, how one person could see one thing and another could see something completely different. But she didn’t say that out loud. Rather, she nodded her head in silent agreement. What was the point in telling him that what she saw was actually a rough outline of Orisia, and that thinking of the Summer Isles nearly gutted her right then and there? 

[i]“Me? I’m not sure why I’m here. It wasn’t somewhere I intended to go. But I’m glad I got to experience it.”[/i]

There it was again, the lingering residue of sadness across his face -- the loss of something, or someone. She examined him again, while he looked anywhere but in her direction.

[i]“She’s resting. For a while,”[/i] he said by way of explaining where his daughter had gone. 

Gabriela didn’t know if it was the truth, she had suspicions -- but again, she said nothing and only nodded her head. 

And then there was a moment of pure panic, which she kept neatly contained within herself, as she considered the possibility of just blurting out that she had killed her own children. What would he think then? What would he say… would he say anything at all? Would tha kindly look in his eyes turn dark and hateful? Surely it would. Her lips pressed into a line and her hands trembled, but held on tight to the flower he had given her. She could just spew it all out, all of the viel and ugly posion that was sloshing about inside of her. She could confess everything. She could finally weep, perhaps, for all the great hurt that she had caused. 

Maybe he’d forgive her.

Maybe he’d take that great big hand of his and wrap it around her skull and squeeze until she was a part of the darkness above, lost somewhere in the space between stars. 

“My name is…” she paused then, and the words were like molasses in her throat, gunky and thick, and she couldn’t produce another sound. Robbed of her voice, the smell of brimstone and spice, caused her to choke. 

There was power in a name -- she had learned that from a young age. This was a new world, a new time, but she was still who she was and surely her name would awaken something, if not in this massive stranger, then surely in herself. She would remember. And in remembering, she would shake off this accursed sadness and reclaim her understanding, her logic, her reason. She didn’t do what she did because she was wicked or cruel -- she did what she had to do. She did the only thing she could do when she was robbed of will and integrity. 

But her name was lost…

She hadn’t seen him. 

She hadn’t felt him.

The world was new, and she was new to the world. For eons, she had been forced to sleep, and wake, and sleep and wake, with the only memory that she was allowed to retain being that of her tragic death. Her mind was still fractured -- surely that’s why she failed to notice. She was not herself. She was not the Black Queen of Orisia, the fruit of her mother and father’s hate, the produce of dwindling line -- the hope of what was left of her kind. Now she was just a rarity, an exotic little creature among beasts of more regard, and certainly, more power. 

But the tell-tale fear was nowhere to be found. Yes -- she had run away again. Yes, she had managed to find a way to open one of the many doors, and then she had stepped through it in an effort to escape her fate. And that should have been cause to run, another desperate and hopeless attempt to escape him, the sight of him standing there in full battle regalia, was instead a washing of relief. The will to run, or escape, simply wasn’t there. And it was so strange to not feel those urges. Running from Roen was the most natural thing in the world for Gabriela, an eternal endeavor that kept them both alive. 

It was now that he was in view that she heard the clicking, the whirring, and humming -- it was only when she could attach those sounds to their movements, to the sight of his encased form, that any of it made sense. 

Roen gestured -- a black gauntlet-covered hand held upward, a half wave. 

It was the most ridiculous thing she had ever seen. The gesture did not match the grim expression upon his face, the dagger-like edge in murderous eyes, or the serrated threat of his pressed lips, which seemed to barely contain the promise of the ugly things he was going to do to her once he had her alone. 

“I am sorry,” she said softly, her voice becoming a small thing on her lips, barely a whisper -- Salvator would hear the words, but they were intended for another. 

“I am sorry,” she repeated, this time forcing herself to break her golden gaze from Roen’s blood-red stare. She looked at Salvator, “...I have to get going now.” She stood up, and held out the flower, “I can’t accept this, please, give it to someone worthy of your talent.” If he did not take it back, she would leave it -- abandoned -- where she had been sitting. 

And then she was gone. Trekking the short distance, through the mud and the cold, to the dark knight that waited for her near the door of the tavern. He had gestured for her to come, and she obeyed. Never before in her life had she been so content to obey. There was certainly a degree of comfort in knowing he still wanted her by his side, a confirmation she heard in the loving caress of the wind as Hades called for his Persephone. 

As he bid her to return home.

She still had a home.

She stopped before him and took the measure of his appearance. When she awoke in Carcosa she had not seen him like this. He had come prepared to do battle. Those golden eyes dropped down the length of his chest and settled the pommel of the sword at his hip. Once more, she looked at him, her brows pinching. She was suddenly nervous for the man sitting behind her and for his obvious heartache. She wanted to reassure Roen, then and there, that she was not the cause of Salvator’s pain.

“I don’t know this world,” she said, by way of greeting, “I don’t know where I am, and by extension, I don’t know who I am.”

Everything fell away then, in that moment of confession and vulnerability, under her heavy cloak -- dirty and caked with mud as it was -- she grabbed at the edges and pulled it closer to her, hiding her small form. But she stared up at him, sought some sort of knowledge in his crimson eyes that she could not find on her own. Bloody tears welled up in her eyes as the scope of it all came crashing over her head like a broken sky shattering into a million pieces. 

She had seen Carcosa. She had understood it -- somewhat. A new world, a new kingdom, a new home. But what was there beyond Carcosa? She didn’t understand this. With Tenenbre’s gift, she would have had eons to learn, but he had robbed her of both power as well as time. She was still the same woman he knew in Valucre, she had not aged much more than those tragic last few months, and she didn’t fully grasp why it was all so different. But an understanding of it lingered on the edges of her mind and it threatened to drive her mad.

“What have you done?” she asked, breathlessly, so very quietly.