She gave him a scrutinizing look and motioned to the grip that his other hand had on the hilt of his sword.
He released it immediately, feeling slightly sheepish, perhaps for the first time in his life. “It’s a habit,” he grumbled.
“Right.” She nodded, exaggerating a pout, as she walked around him to sit on the cliff’s edge. The glow of the fire lit the planes of her cheekbones even from a distance.
“I’m not angry with you,” he said, awkwardly bending to sit beside her. “I was notified by my guards that my employees were here. I knew it wasn’t a coincidence, but there was never a moment where I thought not to trust you.” The Villain wasn’t sure why it was so important that she know this, but it was.
She seemed to believe him, peeking down at the golden band around her pinkie finger. He looked away, feeling guilty.
“I’m glad you trust me,” she said flatly.
“Oh yes. You sound it,” he replied, sarcasm dripping from his words.
Trystan looked to the candles decorating the trees around them, glowing, perhaps, brighter than when they’d first arrived on the other side of the bridge. The music floating gently set a lovely scene. The Villain didn’t know what contentment felt like—he’d spent so long living uncomfortably in the world that he’d begun to rely on that emotion, never allowing himself to settle.
But in this moment, he thought perhaps he could. Quite easily.
“I’ll say this for my father: his parties always have good music.”
Sage’s gaze turned to his, and his face was close enough that he could see the candles’ reflections in her eyes. “Does he do things like this a lot?”
“I don’t know.” Trystan sighed, pressing his middle and pointer finger against the bridge of his nose. “I haven’t talked to him in years.”
In all fairness, Trystan had spent most of his life not talking to Arthur. It wasn’t just that Arthur had spent most of Trystan’s childhood traveling to different places, using the core healer abilities where he was needed. Trystan’s mother, Amara, had told Trystan and his siblings that it was selfish for them to keep Arthur with them when there were so many who needed his help. It was comical to Trystan now, how that need never seemed to matter if it was coming from Arthur’s children.
By the time Clare was born, Arthur had begun to slow down, spending more time at home in their seaside village. Trystan was older, so most of Arthur’s attention was spent on Trystan’s younger siblings. Amara Maverine was not a cold woman, but she was not an affectionate one, either. She did not see the sense in hugs or comfort when the world was so much harsher than that. It was something that Trystan was grateful for—it saved him from the feeling of rejection.
Arthur had taken a softer approach with Clare and Malcolm upon his return, but he must have assumed it was too late for Trystan. At the beginning, it had stung when Trystan would try and bond with Arthur only to be met with disinterest. But Trystan slid back into the patterns he had been raised with quickly, almost to preserve himself. He didn’t need affection; he didn’t need people to show they loved him; it was a waste of time. It was wasted on him.
In the end, it hadn’t mattered anyway. By the time Arthur made tentative steps to build a relationship with Trystan, it was too late. But that hadn’t stopped Arthur from trying, over the years, to send letters, to attempt meetings. Trystan had ignored every single one.
At least his siblings’ hope of redemption for him had finally died, and they were far more tolerable to be around. His mother’s hopes, he knew, had died, too, but that was a whole other brand of torture to subject himself to; later, perhaps. No, right now he would allow himself this small sliver of happiness, if that’s what the warmth creeping through his chest felt like.
In fact, he’d wring this moment of every ounce of joy he could.
Quickly standing, Trystan watched Sage’s face turn up toward his, eyebrows raised in confusion. “What are you doing?” Her eyes widened when she saw him reach out a hand for hers.
“Would you like to dance?”
Her eyes widened even more, but a small smile graced the red bow of her lips.
“With whom?” She looked around theatrically.
Trystan smirked, because in all truth, she was very funny. “With me.”
Sage gripped his hand and let him pull her to her feet. When he bent his neck to take her in, he was knocked breathless by her joy aimed at him full force. It was so foreign to have someone so happy in his presence, or even because of his presence, that he almost missed a step.