Take Your True Love by the Hand — Hadrian & Alessa (POV)

"Just try to be gentle, yes?"

The soft-spoken words echo in the halls of an underground tomb. Ancient walls rise to impregnable darkness, and by the faint light of the campfire, it seems as if there's no one else in the world but you and him.

The fire bathes half of your face, revealing to him the smile accompanying your request. It's beautiful. Lord, you're beautiful, but you use it to hide your nerves. I'd cut off my hand before hurting you, Hadrian thinks, but he swallows down his wretched feelings and smiles back, hoping to reassure.

"I'll do my best," he says and carefully reaches for your hand.

When he first touches you, Hadrian prays for his hands to hold steady. The last thing he needs is to be shaking.

He's touched you before, of course. Brief pats when you pass each other, or, once, you held his arm when he tripped on a rock. You touched him through his shirt, but his arm was tingling for hours after. He'll never forget the first time you brushed hands with him when you passed him a bowl of soup at the campfire. Hadrian didn't think lightning could strike from a touch but had been wrong.

But this is different. He's never held you before.

Gently, he pulls your hand closer, making sure not to linger more than necessary. Still, he can't help but soak in the warmth of your skin. God forgive him, but he'd hold your hand forever.

He glances at you, expecting to see you uncomfortable, but you look serene, willingly offering him your arm. It shouldn't please him as much as it does. His cheeks heat as he looks over your arm—

And all disgraceful thoughts go out of his mind when he sees the blood. The gash on your forearm looks rough. The edges are torn apart and filled with dirt and grime. Hadrian guesses you cut it while struggling in the river. It must hurt, he's sure, yet you show nothing as you sit before him.

Hadrian touches it as softly as he can. "I'm not sure this won't need stitches, but, uh, I didn't bring my needles with me," Hadrian says, cursing himself. He's quick to add. "I'll clean it the best I can, and if it bothers you after, tell me. I'll think of a way to heal it."

You smile at him again. Hadrian asks himself if you know how dangerous that smile is. "I'll hold you to that," you say, smiling that beautiful smile.

Please do, he thinks, but Hadrian opts not to answer. He doesn't trust his tongue not to trip over itself.

He picks up the white rag, dips it in clean water, and starts cleaning the wound. As dried blood and grime come off, he gets a better idea of what he's dealing with, and Hadrian is relieved to see that the wound isn't as deep as he'd feared. The sides aren't too wide apart, either. He presses on it, like Eda taught him, and smiles when it stops bleeding.

It won't need stitches.

He just needs to take out all the tiny rocks, and then he can disinfect it. He works diligently, always trying his hardest not to hurt you, but whenever he feels you tense, he mumbles an apology. He's so absorbed in his work that Hadrian almost jumps when you speak.

"Where did you learn to treat wounds like this?"

Hadrian blinks, looking up. You're watching him with a curious tilt of your head. "Like this?"

"You know," you say, waving your hand in his general direction.

Hadrian smiles but goes back to your wound. He was just about to take that annoying little pebble off. "I think everyone in our line of work has some experience treating wounds."

"Sure,” you concede, “but you actually seem like you know what you're doing."

Hadrian drops the blood-soaked rag in the wooden bowl and begins wrapping your forearm in a clean one. He's avoiding your gaze because he knows his face has darkened. Eda.

All the villagers of Adam’s Rest haunt him at night, ghosts lying in blood-soaked earth. Hadrian begs that they leave him be while he's with you. He'll pay for his sins later, but please, God, give him this.

Eda has always been too good for him because Hadrian finds that he can talk again.

"I had a teacher," he says as he ties a knot on the back of your arm. "She taught me basic medicine. Nothing special, of course." He smiles at the memories of Eda telling him he has two left hands. "She said I was too clumsy not to know how to patch myself up—said she couldn't get a proper rest otherwise."

That seems to get your interest. "Teacher?"

Hadrian's fingers clench on your forearm. He takes his hands away from you and puts them on his lap. He wants to grab his cross, but Hadrian does his best to sit still. "Uh, yes."

"Where is she now?"

He should have seen it coming. Sorrow, deep and violent, clogs his throat, and once again, Hadrian is too much a coward to face you. He looks at his hands, slowly closing them into fists. I killed her. "I'm... not sure," he lies and hates himself for it.

But he can't speak of her now. You don't deserve to have his burdens thrown at you. Hadrian knows you have enough burdens of your own.

"Oh," you say, and it's a punch to his gut to hear the rejection in your tone.

An uncomfortable silence falls.

Hadrian wordlessly reaches for your arm and goes back to finish wrapping your wound. He's done it now. Ruined his only chance to...

To what? A detestable voice whispers. It sounds like the head nun of his orphanage. What do you want, boy? What do you think you deserve?

Tightening his jaw, Hadrian focuses on the job. Eventually, both to his relief and disappointment, Hadrian ties the last knot and secures the bandages around your forearm. He leans back, but you seem enthralled by the fire.

Hadrian feels his lips tug when he watches your dreaming expression, the shadows of his past clearing at the sight of the light playing with your eyes. He'd never met anyone that made him happier by simply being around. Only God. And what a heresy that thought is.

Reaching out, Hadrian gently pats your arm. "All done," he announces.

You snap to the present and inspect the wound. "Thank you, Hadrian," you say, and he feels you move, and Hadrian doesn't know what comes over him.

He only knows that he's pressing down on your shoulder, holding you hostage. "I uh…" His tongue suddenly feels too big. What in Hell's Fires is he doing? "I'm glad you're back. When you went missing, I..."

I almost lost my mind. The panic I felt hurt more than the beatings I took at the monastery. If you had died, I would have blamed the Lord Himself.

"Alessa won't admit it, but we were both worried."

You blink and look between him and his hand lodged in your shoulder. Hadrian flushes and goes to take it—

When you grab onto it, fingers close tight over his own. "I know, and I'm sorry," you tell him. "I promise I'll be more careful from now on."

He's half aware that you're expecting him to answer. But, as much as Hadrian feels compelled to do everything you want of him, he can't. He stares at your hand on his, at your fingers wrapped around his, and God in Heaven.

He wants to turn his hand, grab yours, and pull...

You squeeze his hand. "Hadrian?"

His eyes flicker to yours. The white in your eyes reflects the fire, twinkling like two of the prettiest stars he's ever seen. He stares at you, incapable of thought.

You stare back.

And may his soul be damned, but he starts leaning forward, eyes falling to your lips, curved and slightly parted, and—

Alessa steps out from the shadows.

And Hadrian jumps from his seat. "You're—" He's out of breath. "You're ready?" he stammers, aware of your eyes on him. Lord in Heaven, what was he about to do? "I'm, uh. I'll go fetch my things."

He walks away like a coward and a fool, but as soon as his back is turned, Hadrian beams brightly. His hand tingles. He closes it around his cross, holding it so tight it cuts into his skin.

God Above. Thank you.

- - -

"Not planning on hurting me too much, right?"

Alessa does her best to keep her mask in place. She holds cold, impassive eyes on yours. "Only enough," she says and is surprised when you smile.

Perhaps she ought not to be. Where other people have dismissed her... colder way of speaking, you seem notoriously amused by it. Alessa was frustrated at first but now, each time it happens, she cannot help the foolish warmth that blooms in her chest.

Who would have thought? Her fluttering under something as simple as a smile.

Her eyes narrow at herself, and Alessa stiffly reaches for your hand. She rubbed her hands together prior, hoping that they were not as cold as others had complained they always were. She does not desire you to be uncomfortable, least of all because of her. Alessa does not know why, but she prefers not to think about it too much.

Right now, she must perform. She takes hold of your hand and pulls it to her, doing her best not to linger on the feeling of your skin. 'Tis the first time she touches you bare. Alessa dislikes the aggravating flicker her stomach decides to do.

As if to compensate for the imbecile thoughts, she pocks your wound too hard. You wince, and Alessa immediately regrets it. She opens her mouth to apologize, but other words come out. "This may require stitches," she informs you. Truth be told, she has little idea. Alessa classifies wounds as fatal or not fatal. All other details are lost on her. "As it is, I have never learned how to do so."

She clicks her tongue in irritation. This is a disaster. Alessa expects you to pull your hand back and ask her, as she would, why it was she who volunteered in the first place. She would not know what to answer.

I desired your company.

Alessa would die first before admitting it.

But you do nothing of the kind. You stay where you are, with your arm in her cold, stiff hands. Alessa's voice comes out softer. "I will clean it as thoroughly as I can," she promises. If it comes to it, she will call the Templar fool to assist. "And we shall hope for the best."

Alessa does not like to hope for anything, especially not when it comes to you, but she finds herself doing it, time and time again. She finds herself softening her hold on you.

"Wonderful," you say, and she curls her lips but does not answer.

Instead, Alessa sets to work. She wets a rag, which is easy enough to do, even an idiot could perform it, and brings it to your wound. She dabs at it and notices that she has drawn more blood than was there before.

Why must she be so inadequate?

Alessa flickers her eyes at you, but you only smile reassuringly at her. Biting her inner cheek, Alessa tries again. This time, as gently as she can, she sets to clean the grime from the wound. You're seated close to the firepit for she needs to see you clearly but the flames lick at her skin, and Alessa is already feeling uncomfortable.

Sweat builds on her forehead, and she clicks her tongue again when a trickle falls down her spine. How she detests the southern lands. If she believed in Hadrian's God, she would curse Him for creating heat.

Alessa finds herself wondering if you like it.

"So…" Your voice interrupts her thoughts. She looks at you, and the way you watch her has her fingers jerking. "You went exploring the unknown wing all by your lonesome self, huh?"

Alessa studies you. Where do you desire to go with this? She has trouble reading you; more so than almost all she ever met. "It would appear so," she settles. 'Tis pitiful, but she does not know what else to say.

"No fear at all?"

Are you attempting small talk?

Alessa suddenly feels alarmed. She is even worse at it than healing wounds. "Of what?"

You shrug with one shoulder. "I don't know. The dark, maybe? Big bad blasphemous statues?"

Alessa scoffs. She has no fear of blasphemies.

"Not many would just venture on alone, you know?" you press on.

"You, of course, also being a part of the exclusive club," she reminds you with a raised brow. She keeps her voice leveled, but there's an accusation there. Alessa still cannot believe she almost lost y—

She almost lost a team member.

You flash her a grin. "Do as I say, not as I do."

Alessa has since accepted that she likes your smiles, all the multitudes of them. She is also fond of your quirked eyebrows, and even your frowns. She... enjoys your appearance. 'Tis only natural. One appreciates beauty.

"... you talk too much," she deadpans, and Alessa fights hard not to smile when you chuckle.

There's a small pause, where she finds herself staring into your eyes. With a start, Alessa throws the blood-soaked rag into the water bowl, feeling her neck heat, and violently shakes it.

Avoiding your gaze, she picks up the bandages and starts wrapping your forearm. Silence falls between you again. Normally, Alessa likes silence, but as this one grows and deepens, she finds that she cannot stand it.

"I am usually not so... hasty," she says as she ties a knot on the back of your arm. "But we have been in this place for more than a week and still wield no results to speak of. I do not wish to go back empty-handed. I refuse to fail—"

She holds her tongue.

"Tarek," you mutter. "You don't want to disappoint Tarek."

Alessa's brows lower. Lord Tarek is always at the back of her mind. So much depends on this, so much depends on her. She will not... she cannot fail him. She looks up, holds your gaze, and nods.

You stick out your lips and nod back before you raise your chin and eye the shadows of the ceiling. The fire crackles, eating at the last embers, and the sweat on her back is seeping into the waist of her pants. Alessa shifts in her seat, dreaming of the night breeze and the cold wind. It has been too long since she has felt the wind on her hair. To be stuck underground is… taxing. She does not feel entirely like herself.

"How long have you been with the White Company?" Your voice rings out.

Her fingers stiffen. "Long enough."

You bend your head, trying to catch her gaze. "Long enough for what?"

Alessa does not answer.

You're quiet, and she thinks the subject is done when, as you like to do, you prove her wrong. "What did you do before joining?" you persist.

Slowly, Alessa lifts her head and gives you a sharp smile. It does not reach her eyes. She feels cold all over. "I survived," she hisses.

At the look on your face, she immediately regrets it. You lower your eyes and let out a faint “oh,” that goes straight to her chest. Alessa cracks her lips open, but she knows not what to say. ‘I did not mean it?’ No, she did. But perhaps she could have worded it better.

As you face away, however, Alessa realizes that it does not matter. You feel distant, and she cannot blame you. As she always does, she ruined this too. With a curl of her lips, she goes back to work.

Minutes trickle by…

Before, with a last knot, she is done.

She leans back, but you appear to be lost in thought. Alessa waits for a beat, but you keep your arm outstretched. She smiles a secret smile, places her impassive mask in place, and then flickers you on the shoulder. "It is done," she announces stoically.

You inspect your arm. Alessa hopes it is to your liking. "Thank you, Alessa," you say. You sound sincere and honestly grateful, and Alessa thinks that maybe, just maybe, she did not ruin everything after all.

You start to rise, and she acts before she thinks.

Her hand shoots out, nails digging into the bend of your forearm.

"In the future," Alessa says, leaning in to whisper by your ear. "Do try to avoid further injury. While you were away…"

She had thought you dead. Her cold blood had boiled hot as she shot out into the decrepit halls, yelling for your name.

"It is good you are back."

She sees you clenching your jaw and assumes you do not desire her touch. Alessa quickly snaps her hand away, but you don't let her. Your hand shoots out and grabs her. "I know, and I'm sorry," you say, your warm skin radiating on hers. Alessa's eyes widen, but she cannot move as you keep talking. "I never meant to worry you; I promise I'll be more careful from now on."

She should answer. She attempts to. She cannot.

Your hand engulfs hers, and then, you squeeze.

She is aware of her maddened heartbeat, and of your thumb pressing on her pulse point. Her lips part as a warmth hotter than a thousand flames erupt from within. Her whole face explodes, and she would sneer at it if she could do more than stare at you.

You look back, the moment stretching to eternity. Alessa inches forward as if pulled by a string, her heart beating so loud now, that she cannot hear anything but its thump against her ears.

Your hand shifts, lowering to her wrist, and Alessa believes you will pull her—

Hadrian stumbles into view.

"By God's blo—I mean, damn," Hadrian grumbles, struggling to untangle two pairs of socks that somehow ended up wrapped up together. He stops and blinks at the pair of you. His eyes follow the trail to your linked hands.

Hadrian smiles knowingly.

Alessa snaps her hand back. "I will be waiting over there," she announces, her voice level and her face expressionless. But she still feels her cheeks blazing hot. "Do not take long."

Alessa walks away, back straight and chin held high, but her hand is closed in a tight fist that has her nails digging into her palm. Fool. Pathetic, pitiful, delusional fool.

But despite herself, as melts into the shadows, Alessa smiles.