kinkfest | The Shape of A Man (Odin Sphere, Gwendolyn/Oswald)

Title: The Shape of A Man
Author/Artist:

nekokoban
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: Odin Sphere, Gwendolyn/Oswald: truth - and what should you name me?
Word count: 914
Summary: Gwendolyn names her husband and herself.

+++++

Her husband is so unlike the men of Ragnanival: he is lean to the point of being slender, paler than skimmed milk, and his face is smooth as silk. Yet there is an undeniable strength to him; she needs only to rest her hands upon his shoulders to feel that--and the chill of him, as if his armor had sapped all the warmth from his skin and left him the same as a corpse. Even lying skin-to-skin there is a cold to him that her own body cannot banish. That he is so pale that the blue veins under his skin are readily visible only adds to the illusion, and if not for the slow rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, she might call appearances truth and be done with it. He touches her with clumsy gentleness that leaves her feeling restless and uneasy--it is as if he has known no kind touch in his life and thus only apes the gesture, though with genuine intent.

She does not like how he looks at her, with something raw and honest in his eyes, and so she seeks to distract him with her own study.

"Am I so strange to you, then?" he asks, his voice barely more than a low rumble. She is too battle-trained to startle at this, having heard his indrawn breath before his speech, so she simply presses both her palms to his chest, seeing that her own fingers are ruddy in comparison.

"Perhaps," she says. She tilts her face up and sees that he is watching her solemnly, his eyes nearly black in the dimness. She traces the line of his shoulders and finds scars that were invisible to the eye, white skin against white skin; some are deep enough that she can only imagine how terrible they were when fresh. Part of her wonders who was responsible--who could get close enough to a demon of living shadow enough to spill his red human blood? "There is not a soldier that knows tale of the Shadow Knight, the most feared and deadly of the weapons at the disposal of the Queen of the Ghosts."

His lips twist as if he had bitten into some particularly rotten fruit. Something dark passes through his eyes and is gone before she can quite identify it. "The liege I swore my fealty to was not Elfaria of Ringford," he says. "True, my sword-arm was in her service for a good while, but I am as you see me now: my own master."

"And mine," she says.

A definite frown crosses his face. He sits up, enough to nearly dislodge her; she continues to rest one hand just over his heart, which she can feel break into a sudden nervous rhythm. "I am no such thing."

"I am a disgraced Valkyrie, bound to the man of my King's choosing," she says. In the shadows cast by the bed's canopy he looks young rather than frightening--this darkness is kind to him where no other is. "I may no longer go into battle for glory and honor, merely wait for my lord husband's return."

"No," he says, "no, no, that is nothing of what you are."

"Odin's Witch has fallen at last," she murmurs, and her fingers curl into a fist, her nails dragging hard against his fair skin and leaving red marks behind. "Ah, but it's not even to a brave and loyal soldier that she is passed to, but a man with no place of his own, someone whom her father wished to appease. A repayment for a favor done, though what favor a dishonored Valkyrie might bring, that is the question--"

His hand covers her mouth, surprisingly gentle. There is no weight to his touch, just his palm resting over her still-parted lips; it is so light that she knows she could simply turn and that would free her. The expression on his face, though, is akin to that of a man gutted by spear or sword. It surprises her, that mere words can wound him so, when she has crossed blades with him before and seen him take solid blows without flinching. For long moments they stare at each other, and then he makes a noise as if pained, pulling away from her and rising from the bed in a single smooth gesture.

"I shall take my leave, my lady," he says. The protest rises to her lips that she is not lady, and that she has never been, even as Valkyrie and princess, but the look on his face stills her tongue. "I wish you a pleasant night."

She has the power to call him back, she knows. A word from her would return him to her bed, a cool pale ghost to be her companion for the night, with too-honest eyes and awkward hands that reach for things that she does not think she has to give. He bows his head and it sends a pang through her breast, but she knows that it is not within her to apologize. Not yet, not when her wedding-night is less than a week past and her disgrace is still a fresh wound between them.

He walks with silence and grace, never looking back as he crosses her bedroom and leaves, closing the door gently behind himself. Gwendolyn is left alone with her ghosts and wills herself to not regret.