Chapter 287: When Pride meets Tenderness
[Lavinia’s POV — Same Evening—Dawnspire Wing]
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
The sound was relentless. I groaned, half-buried in my pillow, while Marshi’s faint snores vibrated beside me.
"Who in the name of sanity—" I mumbled, pushing the blanket away.
Then came the voice. Slurred. Desperate. Familiar. "Lavi... Lavi, open the door... please, Lavi..."
My eyes snapped open. Osric.
For a heartbeat, I just sat there, stunned. Then I heard the guards outside—firm, professional, and panicked. "Lord Osric, please—let us escort you back to—"
"No!" his voice cut through, shaky and stubborn. "I... I need to meet my Lavi. My beautiful, angry Lavi..."
I sighed, rubbing my temple. Of course he’d pick now.
Pulling my robe tighter, I stepped toward the door and unlatched it—and nearly stumbled back when he lurched forward, half-tripping over his boots, eyes glossy and cheeks flushed pink like he’d been dipped in wine.
The moment his gaze found me, his entire face lit up.
"Lavi!" he said, grinning far too wide. "My Lavi!"
Before I could react, he wrapped his arms around me, burying his face in my shoulder.
"Osric—" I stiffened. "—are you drunk?"
He chuckled softly against my neck, words melting together. "Nooo... not drunk. Just... slightly... emotionally marinated.
"I exhaled sharply. "In wine, you mean."
He nodded into my shoulder. "Mhm. Only a little. Rey said it would... make the night quieter. But now everything’s spinning, so he’s a liar."
The guards exchanged uncertain glances. One of them stepped forward. "Your Highness, shall we escort Lord Osric back to the Everheart estate?"
Osric waved a hand without even looking at them, holding up his fingers like a child showing off a trick. "See? Still five of them. Perfectly functional. Means I can stay."
He tightened his hold, mumbling, "Not leaving my Lavi’s side. Ever. Again."
I sighed, torn between exasperation and... something softer I refused to name.
"Fine," I said quietly. "I’ll handle him. Just... don’t mention this to anyone."
The guards hesitated, then bowed. "As you command, Your Highness."
When the door finally clicked shut behind them, silence filled the room—except for Osric’s uneven breathing and the faint hiccup that followed.
He leaned more of his weight against me, eyes half-lidded.
"Lavi," he murmured, smiling dreamily, "did you know... when you’re angry, the whole palace feels colder? Even the fire dims."
I looked down at him—at his messy hair, flushed face, and the faint, stubborn smile that somehow made it impossible to stay angry for long.
"Come on, you ridiculous man," I muttered, slipping an arm around him. "Before you collapse in the hallway and embarrass both of us."
He laughed softly. "Already embarrassing you, aren’t I?"
"Terribly."
"Good," he whispered, eyes fluttering. "Then maybe you’ll remember me when I die of heartbreak."
I rolled my eyes and guided him inside, closing the door behind us. He stumbled once, twice—and then smiled again, softly this time, like a boy who’d just found his way home.
He nearly tripped over the carpet as I led him in, mumbling incoherently about how stars were jealous of my eyes and how walls shouldn’t spin so fast.
"Osric," I said, steadying him by the arm, "if you faint, I’m leaving you here for the maids to find in the morning."
He looked up with glassy, pleading eyes. "You wouldn’t... you love me too much for that."
I arched a brow. "At this moment, I’m reconsidering."
He chuckled—a soft, lopsided sound that melted into a sigh. "You’re angry. I can feel it. Even the air around you feels sharp."
"Good," I muttered, pushing him gently toward the couch. "Maybe it’ll sober you up."
He flopped down inelegantly, his head tipping back against the cushions. The firelight painted his face in gold and crimson, his hair a messy halo of rebellion.
"Lavi..." he whispered, his voice suddenly quieter and more fragile. "I came to apologize."
"You’ve said enough already," I replied, folding my arms. "In fact, too much."
He winced. "I know... gods, I know. I said the wrong thing again. I always do when I’m scared."
That caught me off guard. Scared?
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers tangled in his hair. "When I saw you lose control, I thought I’d lose you. Not because of what you’d done... but because I’d have to stand against the world for you again. And I... I panicked."
The words stumbled out like broken pieces of truth.
He lifted his head, eyes red-rimmed but clearer now. "You’ve fought so many battles alone, Lavi. And every time, I swore I’d be your shield. But tonight..." He pressed a hand to his chest, laughing bitterly. "I became the sword that cut you instead."
The room fell utterly still. The only sound was the faint hiss of firewood.
Marshi stirred on the bed, grumbled something, and rolled over.
I swallowed, heart tightening despite my effort to stay cold. "You’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re saying."
He smiled faintly. "Drunk, yes. But not blind." His gaze softened, heavy with regret and affection. "You’ve been angry at me before, but tonight when you looked at me... it felt like you didn’t just hate my words—you hated me. And that..." He laughed quietly, almost to himself. "That’s a wound I can’t fight my way out of."
I turned away before he could see the flicker of emotion on my face. But before I could take a step, he caught my hands—his grip warm, trembling.
"Don’t turn your back on me," he whispered, his voice unsteady. "It hurts... more than you think."
I froze. The sincerity in his tone made my chest tighten—but I stayed silent, unsure whether to strike him or forgive him.
And then, without a word, he sank to his knees again.
The sight hit me like a blade. That same posture—his knees on the cold marble, his eyes lifted to mine with raw guilt—it dragged every buried memory back to the surface.
"I’m sorry, Lavi..." His voice broke, hoarse and desperate. "I was a fool. I thought I was protecting you, but all I did was hurt you. Please, I—"
"Shut up!" My voice snapped through the room like a whip.
He flinched, startled by the sharpness. I pressed a hand to my temple, exhaling through gritted teeth.
"Osric," I said finally, my tone low and cold, "I think you’ve developed a habit of kneeling before me." I turned, glaring down at him. "I am letting this go since you’re drunk, but don’t do it again. Not in front of me."
He blinked, confused. "Why...?"
"Because if you do," I said, stepping closer, "I might start to hate you for real. And trust me, Osric—if I ever truly hate you, the consequences won’t be something you can kneel your way out of."
The words made him sober instantly. His expression faltered, and he stumbled to his feet, swaying slightly.
"I... I promise," he stammered, voice trembling. "I won’t kneel again. Just... don’t hate me. Please."
The room fell silent again—thick, heavy, and painful. His apology hung between us, fragile as glass. I turned away, unwilling to let him see the way my heart twisted.
"Then stand," I said quietly. "And learn to stay on your feet next time you hurt me."
He swallowed hard, nodding. "I’ll try."
"You’ll have to do more than try," I murmured, my back still turned to him.
Behind me, I heard him exhale shakily, the sound of a man both relieved and shattered.
And when I finally glanced over my shoulder... he was still standing, just as I’d ordered—head bowed, eyes dim, the ghost of devotion still clinging to him even as regret swallowed him whole.
"Sleep on the couch," I said at last, my voice calm but clipped. "When you sober up... apologize again. And this time, Osric, I hope your apology actually means something."
He didn’t argue. He just nodded weakly and stumbled toward the couch, collapsing onto it as though gravity itself demanded it. Within seconds, his breathing evened out and was already lost to sleep—still wearing that faint, broken frown, even in his sleep.
I stood there for a long moment, watching him. The firelight painted soft amber across his face. With a sigh, I reached for the blanket draped over the chair and quietly covered him. He stirred faintly, murmuring something under his breath—my name, I think—but I didn’t let myself linger on it.
My fingers brushed the edge of the blanket once more before I stepped back.
"I suppose," I murmured, mostly to myself, "now I understand why Papa never married and why he never wanted me to."
The words slipped out before I could stop them—soft, bitter, real.
"It hurts," I whispered. "More than any wound I’ve ever had."
Marshi yawned from the bed, half-asleep, his tail flicking lazily.
I turned toward my bed, drawing the curtains closed around me. Behind me, Osric slept soundly, the weight of guilt pressed over him like the blanket I’d given.
And as I lay down, staring at the dark canopy above, a single thought trailed through my mind—
If love was supposed to make you stronger... why did it make me feel so impossibly fragile tonight?