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[powerhungry]

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SILCO

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[nightsung]

[ A Sharran wouldn't imagine touching him like this, either. All weakness and sentiment, self-pity. Not even children are allowed such follies, in the Cloister.

But Shadowheart's forsaken; nothing's expected of her, anymore. And for now, Silco isn't turning her away.

She doesn't answer his question, at first, just slips an arm around him for support as he picks her up, her knuckles stinging. She wonders if her father ever did this for her--if there are childhood memories locked away somewhere that she'll never get back, ones where she was carried to bed, where she might have skinned her knees and gotten scooped up before starting to cry.

Shadowheart is so tired. She pulls Silco's question back to her, as they move through the halls, one sure thing in a sea of uncertainty. ]

That wasn't punishment. [ Though she is injured, now, in a way she hadn't anticipated. She curls her fingers toward her palm, wound throbbing. ] That was for me.

[powerhungry]

[ He doesn't answer her straight away. For a stretch, there's just silence — or rather, the sound of his footsteps, heavier than they usually are, taking them both down the hall.

The light in the planetarium is a dreamy purple when he carries her inside, nudging the door open with his shoulder and letting it fall closed behind him as he moves them toward one of the two-seaters. The pale hue of the fabric changes with the shifting of the false sky, the shifting of the painted stars and planets. It's plush, soft, giving way without protest under Shadowheart's weight. As good a temporary reprieve as any other place in the manor. His hands only leave her once he's certain she's settled. ]

If it's what you really want—

[ And he's not certain it is, not really. But that's not what he says, and it's the sound of tearing fabric that fills the room, first. A ribbon of fabric ripping free of his shirt, long enough to bind around her opened knuckles. ]

—ask me for it again.