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The laughter dies strangled in his throat (which hurts, in a way he barely even registers) but there's a bleak amusement to the noise all the same.

His ego has already doomed an entire world. It's a lot to deal with.

A bit hoarsely, "You were compromised, too. And you tried anyway, for as long as you could. That's - that's what I should have been doing."

"No. I was strained, not compromised."

It's only compromised if you fail.

"And I could've tried more effectively, is the point, but I didn't bother. I'm so...tired of being the one who keeps my shit together. I'm too young to be tired of anything. I feel like such a child, being mad that grown-ups don't take me seriously. But then I'm the one acting like a grown-up. It's infuriating."

Edited 2023-11-07 02:54 (UTC)

He's never asked how old Jedao really is, or how old he considers himself to be. Too young covers a broad enough stretch of ground, really.

"It shouldn't be - it isn't - your job to pick up the slack when we fail."

He thinks of Elias with a journal and a feather; he thinks of Maya, with an orb and a library.

"But thank you, for doing it anyway."

"Given that the Admiral is the only one who's ever paid me anything, I feel like containing crises here to the best of my ability actually sort of is my job," Jedao points out.

He perches his chin in his hand.

"Did people hate you, for being First Knight?"

He's all set to point out that the Admiral is paying all of them, and the question cuts him off. His brow furrows, for a moment.

"At first. I was - I wasn't born in Avalir, I wasn't a wizard, there was some controversy there. I had to earn trust and respect, and for some people I never would, but that was fine. I had - there were people who could stop any of that from interfering with my job."

That was how they'd phrase it to him, at least, whenever Patia and Loquatius conspired in his defence.

"I feel like I'm stuck in a trap level, here. I can't earn anyone's respect because if I let them see that I'm smarter and more competent than 96% of the people here, they just hate me for being condescending. Like it's my fault no one else has any tactical training or emotional self-discipline."

"I'd like to think wardens aren't that insecure, but I've done my reading." He's nowhere near finished, but it's enough to know that among the strengths his colleagues usually seem to have, 'self-assured professionalism' sure isn't one of them.

"For whatever it's worth, I'm well aware that you're smarter than I am." No hesitation, and no self-consciousness either.

"Does that mean you're going to listen to me the next time I ask for a briefing instead of glaring like I pissed on your heraldry?"

"Yes." His tone doesn't change but he does look a little defensive. "That wasn't - in my right mind, you're my ally. You're the person I trust. Not him."

For the first time, he can't keep his voice calm and steady; some of that dread and desperation breaks through, for a moment.

"Okay," Jedao says after a beat, quiet and solemn, eyes dark and clear as the night sky from a remote mountaintop.

"What are you afraid of, right now?"

It's not a test. But, Jedao supposes, it also could be.

He wants to pretend the slip didn't happen. He could do that, in Avalir; some people noticed when his gaze turned hollow and distant, but then it would pass and no one had to deal with it, especially him.

The Barge demands rather more from him, and that's fair; it's a better place, overall.

Zerxus closes his eyes and focuses on the crackling of the fire, on the whispers still haunting his dreams. "I'm afraid of the future I know I just got a taste of. I'm afraid of failing the people I've sworn to protect, all over again, because I'm not strong enough to handle it."

It's inevitable, that he'll be a weapon aimed at whatever is left of Exandria. The Barge, at least, was supposed to be safe.

"Come here," Jedao says, and holds out his hands, although he doesn't stand up.

Zerxus opens his eyes, and only regards Jedao for a moment before he stands up and walks forward, reaching out his own hands but not quite making contact. There's the faintest tremble to them, for all that they look unscathed.

Jedao takes both of his hands and squeezes, steady and hard. He tugs Zerxus down, cheating a little with a mothpush, at the crown of Zerxus's head, at the backs of his knees, half nudging, half forcing him to kneel, so that they're eye level again. Jedao leans forward and kisses the top of his head, right in between the horns.

"It's alright," Jedao murmurs. "I forgive you."

There's no resistance; the push just has him going faster, bumping his knees against the floor in a way he might feel later but certainly doesn't now.

Right now, he's squeezing Jedao's hands like lifelines and blinking hard, over and over, because you don't just - you don't force a man to kill you and then sob into his arms about it.

You don't reject his forgiveness, either. "Thank you."

There's no tremble in his voice. You learn to speak clearly through all sort of pain, when people need to hear you.

Since there's no tugging his hands back right now, Jedao uses another mothpush to press Zerxus forward, to push his face against Jedao's clavicle, to hold him close, to give him the safety of not needing to meet Jedao's eyes.

"You can cry. It's alright."

He's shed tears, in the last seven years, every now and then. On the last day of his life he did so a few times.

He hasn't properly sobbed since that day in their house, when Evandrin fully faded away and there was nothing left to hold. Even when the ritual failed he had felt too drained to cry, too empty to do anything but plead for that failure to be stricken from his memory.

There's a soft, token noise of protest before the dam breaks, and he's shaking with the force of it, jarring all of the wounds that aren't really there.

Jedao settles pressure around Zerxus like a weighted blanket, not enough to stop him from moving, just enough to feel held, all over. It hurts to do, but only a little, like scraping up a scab that wasn't quite ready.

Jedao doesn't let go of his hands.

It's just as novel as the wracking sobs; he'd isolated himself so thoroughly, so stubbornly after the funeral. Even Nydas's fierce embrace would only last a few second before he pulled away. On the Astral Plane, he and Evandrin only had moments to hold each other again.

He remains largely silent, save for the odd shuddering, startled gasp of air. The echoes of agony in those moments are almost a relief; they're familiar, they're grounding.

When he finally pulls back - he couldn't possibly say after how long - he looks up Jedao with wide, stunned eyes.

"I - " It's more of a croak than a word. He doesn't remember how to do this.

Jedao strokes a hand over his hair, just once, over the same place where he kissed Zerxus's hair.

"Do you drink tea?"

He just stares for a second, off-kilter and overwhelmed.

"Yes. I've - been drinking a lot of it, lately." It's soothing in the way his magic ought to be, but isn't.

"Good. Make us some tea," Jedao tells him, gently but straightforwardly firm. Zerxus needs fluids and needs not to have to make any decisions quite yet, Jedao suspects.

Zerxus nods with relief he doesn't even realise is there, and stands with the stubborn smoothness of someone who's in pain but doesn't have to worry about agitating their wounds.

He's already walking towards the kitchen as he asks, "How do you like it?"

"Mild, please," Jedao says simply, rising after a moment to follow him.

It's not a big kitchen, but there's enough room for a table; there are two chairs, at the moment, and Zerxus reaches out to slide one out as he moves past, headed towards - more or less a stovetop. It alights with something when he fills a kettle and presses a button. Then he reaches up to the only cupboard and pulls out two cups.

One is blue porcelain inlaid with delicate constellations of brass; the other is a vibrant red, painted with a golden dragon that has never faded. Only one of them has seen any use on the Barge so far. There's a long moment where he just stares at them in his hands before finally setting them down on the counter.

"White tea, I think," he murmurs, if only to ground himself in the present; then he's reaching back into the cupboard, and pulling out a sealed tin. It's illustrated beautifully with vines and petals, but there are runes painted into the design that catch the light a little differently.

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