Nathaniel POV
The inn smelled of polished wood, warm bread, and old stories that clung to the walls long after their tellers had gone. When we returned, the lamps in the hallway flickered softly, their light stretching and shrinking with every sway of the flame.
I placed the clothes I'd bought carefully on the chair, aligning them more neatly than necessary. Elisha lingered behind me, silent. Too silent.
I couldn't stand it.
Without a word, I turned and left the room.
Downstairs, the tavern was alive — laughter spilling over tankards, cutlery clinking, boots scraping against the floor. Noise. Movement. Things I understood.
I ordered wine.
Then another.
I stared into the cup, watching the liquid ripple as my fingers tightened around it.
I didn't know how to apologise.
The realisation unsettled me more than any blade ever had.
I had never apologised before. Not properly. Even when I knew I'd crossed a line, I'd always believed that intent mattered more than consequence. If I hadn't meant to hurt someone, then the hurt itself was… unfortunate, but not my responsibility.
Yet Elisha's expression from the previous night refused to fade — the way his eyes had dulled, the way his shoulders had stiffened as if bracing against an invisible blow.
I replayed the words I'd said over and over again, dissecting them like a corpse on a table.
Everyone has their own problems.
They should deal with them themselves.
Clinging to the past is idiotic.
Those words had never failed me before.
So why did they feel wrong now?
Why did it feel like I had spoken them to the one person who least deserved them?
I took a long drink, the wine burning its way down my throat.
I wasn't someone who comforted others. I wasn't built for that. Sympathy slowed you down. Attachment anchored you in place.
And yet…
Why did it feel like I should have reached for him instead of pushing him away?
The thought left a bitter taste in my mouth.
I didn't want to be misunderstood.
More than that — I didn't want him to misunderstand me.
But how did you explain intentions to someone you'd already hurt? How did you untangle meaning once words had cut too deep?
For the first time in my life, certainty abandoned me.
For the first time, I didn't know what to do.
For the first time… I felt guilty.
—
A sudden crash jolted me from my thoughts.
A table slammed against the floor near the centre of the tavern. Shouts erupted. Chairs scraped back hurriedly as patrons turned to watch.
Two men were fighting — drunk, clumsy, and loud. Between them stood a serving girl, frozen in place, her tray shattered at her feet.
She was pretty. Soft-featured, wide-eyed.
And yet, unbidden, a different image surfaced in my mind — silver hair catching the light, eyes sharp even when hurt.
I scoffed quietly and took another sip.
Drunkards. Not my concern.
I turned away.
Then the girl screamed.
The sound cut through the tavern like glass shattering.
I looked back just in time to see one of the men grab her arm, his fingers digging in hard enough to make her cry out again as the other lunged toward them.
She was trapped between two men who saw her as nothing more than something to fight over.
Every instinct I had told me to stay seated.
Everyone has their own problems.
This wasn't mine.
My fingers tightened around my cup as Elisha's face rose uninvited in my mind — the disappointment, the hurt, the quiet withdrawal.
Not everyone can carry their burden alone.
Sometimes… someone needed help.
I exhaled sharply.
So much for principles.
I stood.
The kick came easily — precise, controlled. My boot connected with the man's chest and sent him flying across the room, crashing into the wall before collapsing unconscious.
The tavern went silent.
I ignored it.
I turned to the remaining man, who was taller than me but suddenly very aware of his mortality.
"Let go of the girl," I said evenly. "Now."
Fear drained the alcohol from his expression. He released her immediately, stumbling backward as she fled to my side.
I didn't raise my voice. I didn't need to.
When it was over, I turned to her. "Are you hurt?"
She shook her head quickly. "N-no, sir. Thank you." She hesitated. "Is… is there anything I can do for you?"
I returned to my table and gestured for her to sit.
"I need advice," I said.
Her brows lifted in surprise, but she nodded.
"If someone you care about comes to you when they're hurting," I said slowly, choosing each word with care, "and you tell them it's their problem — that everyone should carry their own cross — what does that make you?"
She studied me for a long moment.
"Honestly?" she asked.
"Yes."
She sighed. "With all respect, sir… that makes you a bastard. Emotionally detached. And terrible at understanding other people's feelings."
I accepted that quietly.
"And if that person avoids you afterward?" I continued. "If they look at you like you're a stranger?"
She leaned back, thinking. "Then you apologise. Properly. Not excuses — an apology. And you show them you care, even if you're bad at saying it."
"Show them how?"
She smiled knowingly. "Notice them. Remember small things. What they like. What they look at but don't buy."
My thoughts immediately drifted to a simple band of fabric and metal.
"Is the clothing shop still open?" I asked.
She nodded. "Thyrelith never sleeps in the evening."
—
The shop glowed warmly when I entered, lanterns reflecting off glass and polished wood.
I went straight to the accessories.
The band was still there.
It was understated, elegant — something that wouldn't draw attention yet somehow demanded it. I imagined it against silver hair, imagined fingers absently touching it.
My chest tightened.
"How much?"
"Fifteen gold coins."
I paid without comment, even as my pride protested.
—
Outside our room, I hesitated.
I inhaled.
Then I opened the door.
Elisha sat at the table, knife in hand, slicing apples with careful precision. Each piece became a small bunny, placed neatly beside the last.
He didn't look up.
The quiet was suffocating.
I sat on the bed, watching him, trying to decide where to begin.
Alright. Think.
'Hey, Eli, how are you doing?'
No. Absolutely not. He was clearly not doing fine — and I was the reason. Asking that would just be insulting.
'Hey… you're cutting apples. Oh — bunny shapes. Can I have some?'
I winced internally.
That sounded ridiculous. Like some overly dramatic younger sister trying to apologise to her mother while asking for a favour. Worse — it felt like I was asking him to carve a piece of me and feed it back to me.
Terrible idea.
Fine. Straight to the point then.
'Look, I know I said some horrible things to you yesterday, but that's not what I meant. I'm just not good at understanding human emotions.'
I grimaced.
That sounded less like an apology and more like a demon pretending to be human. Creepy. Detached. Wrong.
This was hopeless.
What was I even supposed to say?
Before I could torture myself any further, his voice cut through my spiralling thoughts.
"You've been staring," he said flatly. "If you have something to say, say it."
I swallowed.
"About yesterday…"
The words tangled. Broke. Fell apart.
Even I could hear how inadequate they sounded.
"That was awful," he said.
"I know," I admitted. "I've never done this before."
I moved closer, sat opposite him, close enough to smell apples and soap.
"What I said… I meant it," I said quietly. "But not the way you heard it. I didn't want you to believe in nothing. I didn't want you to end up like the gods who failed you."
His knife clattered onto the table.
"I realised today," I continued, voice lower, "that sometimes people do need others. And I don't want you carrying everything alone."
I met his eyes.
"I'm sorry."
The silence stretched.
"Okay," he said at last.
It hurt more than anger.
"Please leave me alone," he added. "I don't need you."
He disappeared into the bathroom.
Something inside me caved in.
—
Hours later, surrounded by empty bottles, I sat hunched over the table, clutching the hair band and crying without understanding how it had happened.
So this was what hurt felt like.
—
Elisha POV
The bathroom was quiet except for the slow drip of water from the tap.
I had finished bathing long ago — the water had gone cold, my skin dry — yet I remained there, seated on the edge of the tub, staring at nothing.
Nathaniel's words replayed themselves in my mind over and over again, refusing to settle into anything coherent.
His apology had been… strange. Awkward. Poorly structured. Almost painful to listen to.
And yet.
There had been something underneath it.
Something raw.
I pressed my palms against my knees and exhaled slowly.
Was he genuine?
The thought alone unsettled me.
Nathaniel was not the type to apologise. He wasn't even the type to explain himself. He moved through life like someone who had already decided that the world would either keep up with him or be left behind.
So why now?
Why tonight?
I wanted to believe it was an act — that his pride had been wounded, that his ego couldn't stand being ignored. That explanation was easier. Safer.
Believing sincerity from someone like him was dangerous.
Because I had believed once before.
And it had hurt.
I stood and wrapped a towel around myself, my movements slow, heavy with indecision. From beyond the door, I heard movement — the scrape of a chair, the clink of glass.
Then again.
And again.
Too many times.
My brows furrowed.
When I finally opened the bathroom door, the smell of alcohol hit me first.
Bottles were scattered across the floor — more than I could count at a glance. The sight stopped me short.
Nathaniel sat slumped in the same chair I had left him in, his head resting against the table, shoulders unmoving.
"…You idiot," I muttered.
So he'd drunk himself senseless.
What was he, eight?
I turned away at first, heading toward the bed, determined not to involve myself further.
I had already decided to stop expecting things from him.
Yet my steps slowed.
Something caught my eye.
I glanced back.
His hand was curled tightly around something.
Curiosity — or perhaps foolishness — drew me closer.
It was a hair band.
The same one.
My breath caught.
The one I had lingered over at the store.
Did he… buy this?
For a moment, I dismissed the thought. Maybe it was his. Maybe it meant nothing.
But Nathaniel never bothered with such things. He barely tolerated his own hair being out of place.
My chest tightened in a way I didn't like.
I crouched beside him, studying his face. His lashes rested against his cheeks, damp. Too damp.
I reached out without thinking and brushed my thumb lightly beneath his eye.
Wet.
"…Were you crying?" I whispered.
The question unsettled me more than it should have.
Had I hurt him that badly?
Or was he simply a crying drunk?
I didn't know which answer frightened me more.
With a quiet sigh, I slipped my arm beneath his and tried to lift him.
It took effort. More than I expected.
"Of course you're heavy," I muttered, dragging him toward the bed in small, awkward steps. After several failed attempts and more grumbling than dignity allowed, I managed to dump him onto the mattress.
His limbs fell into an ungraceful sprawl.
I stared at him for a second.
Then I laughed softly despite myself.
I adjusted him, tugging him into something resembling a proper position. As I did, the hair band slipped from his grasp.
I picked it up, turning it slowly between my fingers.
It was warm.
Carefully, I tucked it into the fold of his robe, close to his chest — somewhere he wouldn't lose it.
I hesitated.
Then I climbed onto the bed beside him and pulled the blanket over us both, leaving a careful distance between our bodies.
Not even two minutes passed before he stirred.
"Elisha…" he murmured in his sleep, voice rough. "I'm sorry."
My chest tightened painfully.
I turned my head to look at him.
This was the man I was supposed to hate.
The man who spoke truths without mercy. The man who shattered beliefs and walked away without looking back.
And yet…
The gods had never apologised to me.
They had never explained. Never regretted. Never cared.
But he had.
I smiled faintly, a gesture meant only for the quiet room.
"Goodnight, Nathaniel," I whispered.
Then, turning onto my side, I closed my eyes.
What kind of god would you have been, if you were mine?