"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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"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?"
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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For the first time, he can't keep his voice calm and steady; some of that dread and desperation breaks through, for a moment.
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"What are you afraid of, right now?"
It's not a test. But, Jedao supposes, it also could be.
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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.
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"It's alright," Jedao murmurs. "I forgive you."
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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.
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"You can cry. It's alright."
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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.
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Jedao doesn't let go of his hands.
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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.
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"Do you drink tea?"
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"Yes. I've - been drinking a lot of it, lately." It's soothing in the way his magic ought to be, but isn't.
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He's already walking towards the kitchen as he asks, "How do you like it?"
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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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"White tea is my favorite," he admits, lets Zerxus have that small validation.