don't you dare go down

13 August 2019

Content warning for self-destructive tendencies and descriptions of resultant injuries, including an implied suicide attempt. None are directly self-inflicted; Galahad's deliberately getting himself into dangerous situations. The events themselves are off-screen and canon-typical, this fic just deals with the aftermath.

Title from "Sticks and Stones" by the Pierces! Thanks to Danny and Storm for betaing for me.

Te’ijal can tell when Galahad wakes up, because she feels a boot dig sharply into her stomach.

It’s halfway between a kick and a scramble, and she hears him hiss in pain to accompany it, attempting to free himself from his position slung over her shoulder. He swings himself weakly upwards, apparently not content to dangle across her back. In reply, Te’ijal tightens the arm holding him around his waist, just in case he manages to escape her grasp. She would so hate for him to fall.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, crumpet,” she muses, chuckling as he struggles. “I think your leg is broken.”

“Demon spawn,” Galahad says, more a reaction to her presence than anything else. Then he tries to kick her again, as if to test it, and tenses against her afterwards. She clicks her tongue against her fangs, shaking her head.

“I warned you,” she says, tone making it clear she didn’t expect him to follow for a moment. She waits for a second, pausing her walk; she fears she’s liable to trip if he’s going to squirm like this.

She’s surprised when he slumps just slightly over her shoulder, though it certainly makes her job easier. He’s calmed enough for her to resume the brisk pace she took before he woke up. Eventually, his voice returns, exhausted and irritated. “Where, exactly, are you taking me, creature?”

“Home.” Te’ijal hums.

“Your home, you mean.”

“Oh? It’s been seventy years, my dumpling. Do tell me how long it will take for you to consider it yours.”

“What’s longer than an eternity?”

She rolls her eyes. “Husband! Do not let such pessimism overtake you. You ought to look forward with excitement.”

He groans wordlessly in reply, and she figures that’s the end of that.

Te’ijal walks carefully through the forest, keeping an eye out for potential foes. She hopes they can make it through without running into something looking for a fight. She can’t use her bow with her arms so occupied, and Galahad is in no condition to battle.

She wonders about the details of his most recent. He’d been gone for a week before she'd gotten bored. After a generous grace period of two days, she set out to find him. She was used to stumbling upon him in some state of disrepair, but this was the first time he’d been unconscious, and in the back of her mind, that concerned her. She was relieved he’d awoken and started grumbling so soon. The energy was heartening. She nearly wishes he would fight her now.

Instead, it takes until the trees begin to clear and the path becomes paved that Galahad speaks again.

“Grant me the dignity of putting me down when we arrive at Ghed’ahre.” It’s not a request.

She considers objecting, but realizes she quite likes the mental image of supporting him the rest of the walk home. Perhaps his arm will loop around her waist, or one of his firm hands will clasp against her shoulder to use her weight as foundation…

Te’ijal attempts to deposit her husband on the ground as gingerly as possible. Instead, as she leans forward to let his feet touch the ground, the uneven weight nearly topples them both. Te'ijal finds her balance, but Galahad falls rather than grab her outstretched hand. She winces as she watches his elbows take the impact. He pushes himself upwards, grimacing and rocking unsteadily back and forth all the while. As soon as he stands, he sets a hard glare on her.

“It’s not broken,” he grumbles, and attempts to brush past her back to the forest. He’s wobbling.

She grabs him by the arm and turns him around, preparing herself to literally drag him back to their house. “It will be if you go back out there. You have two options: I patch you up at home, or I take you to Rashnu.” Te’ijal tries her best to pull her features into a serious expression, narrowing her eyes at him. She hates having to scold him.

He averts his eyes. “I will not trouble the druid. You may take me to the house.”

With Galahad’s injured leg and stubborn insistence on stumbling through the city, they’re forced to take a slow pace. It feels nearly unnatural to Te’ijal, so used to chasing him around dining tables. When they get home, she wastes no time in nudging him to the bedroom.

“You ought to lay down and get your weight off of it, my pastry. The sooner you stop straining it, the sooner it will be able to heal. Do you need help getting onto the bed?”

His face twists into something she thinks is disgust. “Your coffin may make an effective step.”

Satisfied he’s not about to run off and get himself further injured, Te’ijal skips into the hall and down towards the kitchen. She gets to work immediately acquiring what she needs, rifling through jars of cassia preserves and loose leaf marsh tea to find bandages, and pulls out the elixir for good measure.

Then she sets about finding the pieces to a makeshift splint.

By the time Te’ijal returns to the bedroom, her arms are nearly overflowing. She’s glad she’d had the foresight to leave the door open. She strides in, dropping everything gently on the side of the bed Galahad isn’t on, until–

Until she frowns and realizes her husband is not, in fact, laying down on the other side of the bed. He’s standing further off, by the dresser, resting some of his weight against it and off of his injured leg. Perhaps finding something more comfortable to change into? She’s yet to see him outside of all that bulky armor, and helping him undress so she can tend to his wounds is a scene right out of one of her favorite novels. Giddy with the prospect, she strides over to him.

He surprises her by thrusting the cloth in his hands out to her. She unfolds it gingerly to see what he’s chosen, and furrows her brow in confusion as she recognizes it as her one of her nightgowns.

“I thought you may appreciate the change of clothes,” he explains, and steps forward, wincing. She takes a step back on reflex and realizes he’s nudging her towards the door. “Seeing as you won’t be sleeping here tonight.”

She laughs. “What are you talking about? This is my bedroom.”

“Regretfully, it is also mine. I am going to deal with this myself, and you are going to leave.” He pushes his hands forward as if to shoo her out. “Now.”

“Husband, don’t be ridiculous. You need my assistance.”

“I need no such thing,” Galahad says. A pained expression crosses his features. “I should thank you for returning me to safety, I suppose. But your effort was never requested, and is unnecessary now. I would rather not have to physically push you out. Begone, demon.”

Te’ijal pouts, but turns on her heels to leave. “Should you change your mind, tidbit, you only need to call.”

As soon as she’s past the doorway, he slams it shut behind her. Her stunned silence is broken only by the click of the lock.

…

“That’s a lot of blood, duckling.” She’s tempted to tease him, but the scent of it and the long cut across his eye warns her it’s all his. “You’re lucky I have such good timing.”

Galahad grumbles as his wife deposits him on the sofa. “I’m beginning to get suspicious about that, actually.”

Te’ijal sighs as she leaves to rifle through the medicine cabinet. She’s almost impressed with how consistently he manages to get himself in trouble. His vampirism should heal most injuries, and it’s not like he ever wears less than a full suit of armor, so he really shouldn’t be able to come home so often bloodied and bruised with near-broken bones.

Today appears to be mostly the first two, which grants Te’ijal some relief, even amidst the mess her husband has made of his face. She sits down beside him and finally gets a good look at him beyond all the blood. The gash reaches from his forehead to his cheek, deep and smooth; whatever attacked him made a clean target of him. She suspects the jut of his brow and his quick reflexes may have been the only things keeping his eye intact, but it doesn’t seem to have sustained any injuries. Instead, the skin just below it is red and swollen, giving way to a nasty purple bruise forming across his cheek.

She reaches a hand to cup his injured cheek. Pained, he twists away on reflex. “Are you going to let me help you this time, my tasty, or are you going to make a fuss?”

“…You may help.”

“I’m thankful you see reason. I’m going to start by cleaning up some of this blood.”

He nods. She can’t help but find the gesture a little weak.

Still, Te’ijal smiles as she gets to work. She’d dampened a soft cloth with water, and now she uses it to try to scrub some of the mess from his face. Sliding one hand to the back of his head to hold him in place, the other moves the cloth gently across his bloodied skin. He flinches when she comes too close to contact with the injury, so she adjusts, moving slightly more carefully.

“You really ought to take to wearing a helmet,” she murmurs.

Galahad doesn’t protest.

Despite the severity of the situation, something light rises in her chest. It’s far from everyday her husband lets her touch his face like this, after all. (He never has.) Te’ijal knows more than anything, he must be accepting her help simply because he needs it - it’s not like he can get a good look at this injury himself, after all. But she can’t help but hope, just a little, that there’s some other, fonder reason he lets her help him.

If there is another motivation, it doesn’t breach his features. His eye is squeezed shut as she scrubs the skin around it, but Te’ijal is pretty certain the other one is glaring at her, and it isn’t exactly revealing any warm and fuzzy feelings about the way she rests her hand against him. She thinks she catches his head jerking, just a little; she bites her lip and frowns. He must be in pain.

Satisfied his face is clean and eager to proceed, Te’ijal sets the used cloth back on the table. It’s an awful red color she’d find lovely in any other circumstances. She picks up an identical one, clean and dry, and presses it firmly to the injured part of his forehead in an attempt to stop any further bleeding.

Holding it tightly in place, Te’ijal says, “You’re awfully quiet today.”

“Am I ever particularly talkative, witch?”

She laughs. “You can’t call me a witch when I haven’t even brought out the elixir! Which reminds me, we’re running low. You’ll come with me to buy more next week; we’ll make a day of it.” She looks at the cloth against his forehead; it doesn’t seem bloodied enough to justify a second one. Good; she only has so many of the things, and she still needs one for his cheek. “Just a warning, this one may sting a little.”

Galahad sighs, but leans his head just slightly forward; she presses the new cloth onto his cheek, reaching as close to his eye as she can without covering it. He winces at the pressure of her hand against the bruises blossoming there.

“Any other injuries I should know about, dumpling?”

She feels his face twitch beneath her hand. “They are not your concern.”

“I suppose you’re going to kick me out of my own room again?”

“Just briefly,” he says. “I should be able to dress them shortly.”

She sighs. “Very well. I’m almost surprised you aren’t pitching a fit over this one.”

“Perhaps I am simply too tired.”

Te’ijal frowns. “Oh, we can’t have that. Make sure to rest well, crumpet; your spirit does me good.”

“Sleep deprivation has never been so tempting.”

She rolls her eyes and removes the cloth, setting it on the table. She stands up and extends a hand to him. “Come now, husband; I think it’s best we wash the wound.”

He doesn’t take the hand, but he follows her. “I thought vampires didn’t get infections,” he says, blandly.

“We don’t. But this will help it heal faster.”

He leans awkwardly against the bathroom cabinet; she busies herself washing her hands and preparing soap and water. She’s running out of clean washcloths; she’ll have to do laundry tomorrow. With one hand, she tilts his head down towards her, with the other, she tries her best to clean the injury. Galahad furrows his brow, presumably in pain, and she fusses with him to smooth his forehead and stop frowning.

“I’m curious what you fought that did this to you,” she says. “It will have an effect on the healing, of course.”

He’s quiet for longer than she’d expect. The air turns awkward, then tense; she narrows her eyes as she shifts to patting his skin dry once more, reduced to using a full size towel. When she sets it aside, he finally speaks, voice somehow both worn and plain. “One of those skeletons,” he says, finally.

Te’ijal winces. She laughs nervously. “Really, husband,” she says, “what were you thinking? You know another undead has the greatest capacity to hurt you.”

He answers her plainly, almost gently. “And you know you don’t want the answer to that question, wife.”

Something in Te’ijal startles and freezes. Her hands feel uncertain, fumbling, as she searches through supplies to find gauze and their half-empty bottle of elixir. It shakes in her hand as she uncorks it.

“I suppose I don’t,” she murmurs, and then starts to nervously dab the elixir onto his face. Satisfied she’s covered part of the injury, she rips off a length of gauze and wraps it tightly around his head, covering the cut along his forehead. Hands a little firmer, a little steadier,  she repeats the gesture along his cheek. His face looks awkward and mummified.

She doesn’t like it.

“It will likely scar,” she says, softly. “Considering what you were injured by.”

Galahad doesn’t look at her as he nods. “That’s fine,” he says, voice a little distant. He seems sincere, if nothing else. She can't tell if she's relieved or more concerned by the answer. Instead she stares past him and doesn’t say a word, trying to force some of her usual pep. He brushes past her, collecting medical supplies on the cabinet beside her.

He has more injuries to address, she supposes.

…

Te’ijal has learned how to worry. She’s learned that her husband’s disappearances aren’t all fun and games; started to notice the cues that mean she should be concerned or not. She anticipates injury by the time she sets out, and leaves medical supplies waiting for them on the counter.

Sometimes she waits for him. In the back of her mind, she can’t help but nurse some daydream where Galahad comes home, exhausted and injured, stumbling in her doorway, looking for her aid. Where he returns without her chasing. She tends to his wounds and makes him his bed, and he thanks her for being something to rely on.

It hasn’t happened yet, though, so she keeps dragging him home instead.

This time went better than usual, but of course, she had an incentive. Galahad can’t resist danger, and he can’t resist protecting people, so a quest to save the world made a persuasive combination. She’s thankful he was so close to the city tonight. They’re on a rare deadline, and she wants to get to work cleaning him up right away.

She clicks her teeth as they stride through Ghed’ahre. “Skeletons again, my dumpling? Didn’t you learn from the last time?”

“I learned they’re easy to provoke,” he mutters under his breath. He follows behind her, clutching his arm; she can see blood soak his gambeson.

She sighs. “Well, you should count your blessings I came when I did. You seemed rather locked in a stalemate to me.”

“When is Gyendal’s meeting?” he asks, not dignifying her with a response.

“Tonight,” Te’ijal says, opening the door for him and specifying, "six hours. We should get there later so we're not seen by any stragglers."

Galahad nods. Te'ijal closes the door.

“I have time to tend to this, then.” He lets go of his arm, and Te’ijal frowns. Without even thinking, she reaches for it, one hand clutching just above his elbow, the other close to his wrist. She looks up at him.

“Wait,” she says, and then, “can I help you?”

He meets her eyes. The hesitation surprises her. “…You may,” he finally says. "Could you start by gathering the supplies?"

"One step ahead of you, darling. They're on the kitchen counter. Go sit on the bed, I'll be right there."

She collects them, doing her best to keep her step somber as she follows just behind him.

She meets him sitting on the bed, putting the contents of her arms in the space between them. Gingerly, she takes his arm in her hands, runs her fingers across the metal of his armor. It’s dented in a few places; she realizes one piece has broken off in its entirety. A rerebrace; the upper arm of his gambeson is exposed and slashed, that’s where the blood is coming from.

Te’ijal places her hands down on her lap, a little awkwardly. “I’ll have to remove the armor,” she says. “Probably on this entire arm.”

Galahad looks away from her. “That’s fine,” he says, briskly. “Don’t take off anything else, devil spawn.”

For a moment, Te’ijal is almost too stunned to do so. But she nods, and she starts to work on the fasteners. The pauldron is obvious enough; a simple leather strip connects it to his breastplate. The couter, too, is clearly nestled in the crook of his elbow. She moves his arm a little, feeling a bit like she’s posing a doll, to find the straps she needs to unhook on his vambrace. He’s certainly still enough for it.

She slips off his gauntlet.

She tries to remember the last time she’s seen his bare hand. Faintly, Te’ijal thinks that’s likely an unusual thought for a wife to have. That would have made her wistful, long ago, or maybe even very recently, if she’s honest with herself. She finds it doesn’t now.

Te’ijal attempts to inspect her husband’s injury. The fabric of his padded jacket, while thoroughly sliced, is thick enough around the surrounding skin to prevent her from getting a good enough look at it. She purses her lips, frowning.

“I can’t do anything with this fabric in the way,” she says, and finds her voice is uncharacteristically sheepish. She’s at an impasse; she certainly knows better than to ask him if she can take off his breastplate. She’s not even sure she wants to– there’s something about her mental image of Galahad that belongs in shining metal, like if she stripped off too much armor he would disappear right along with it.

He surprises her by saying, the stiffness in his voice betraying some slight discomfort, “the sleeves on this one unlace. Check the shoulder.”

She nods and gets to work carefully unlacing the sleeve of his gambeson. Slowly, she pulls it down his arm. The teal, heavy fabric gives way to a lightweight white shirt not unlike the ones she’s more inclined to wear.

This one’s an easy fix. She rolls up the sleeve, bunching it around his shoulder, and suddenly, his arm – injury and all – is exposed.

It’s so strange to see; it’s almost jarring. After all her years of idealizing this very moment, it feels almost invasive to see his bare skin. She always sort of thought she'd care more about the pink tone, the musculature of his shoulder, the curve of his arm, the precise placement and faded color of each scar littering his arm. She does register these things, vaguely, but she finds herself far more focused on the task at hand and the blood dried along his arm. The gash is red; deep, but maybe not deep enough to join the rest of his scars, if she moves quickly enough.

Te’ijal knows the motions by now. Apply dry cloth to cut, provide pressure for at least five minutes. Pull cloth away bloody. Repeat as necessary. Walk them both over to the washroom, clean it with soap. Pat dry. Walk back to the bedroom. Bandage.

She smiles up at him as she rolls his shirtsleeve down, smoothing it out over the bandage. She hopes she remembers how the gambeson attached. She’ll figure that out soon enough.

“I imagine if you have any other injuries, you wouldn’t like me to care for them?”

“Nothing else requires help. The rest will heal naturally.” She's troubled by the disdain clear in his voice.

As she settles him down onto the bed, she collects his torn jacket sleeve. “I could probably sew this up for you,” she says, a little curious to try. When he doesn’t respond, she says, “no promises, of course, it’s a little thicker material than I’m used to, but it’s worth a shot.”

He doesn't respond for a long while, and she sighs. Before she can ask him what’s got him so bothered now, he asks, quietly, “why insist on helping me? I rarely ever let you.”

"I know you. Even when you need it, you won't bother to ask." She smiles. "But I can't help but think maybe you'll accept the offer, if it's already laid out for you."

His snort is too derisive to be laughter. He stands up, shaking his head at her. "Should we return from this quest and you find yourself lacking things to do besides making me miserable, I'll take you up on that."

She rises as well. "I take it you want me away for a bit?"

"I'm not so stubborn as to wear torn clothes and shattered armor. I'd like to change before your brother's speech."

…

Te’ijal is in pain.

She hasn’t been complaining about it, but Galahad can tell. It’s written across the way her face twists, the way she grabs at her upper arms. She’s been grimacing and fidgeting uncomfortably with her wedding ring all day, none of her usual energy or wild gestures.

It’s also drawn across her skin, the burn across her bare shoulders, so deep the usual lavender looks gray and ashen, the left side of her face raw with a rippling burn mark encroaching upon her nose. They were slower to apply the sunscreen than they should have been. The humans were slow to remember they had it. He’d fumbled too long with undoing her bonds.

He’d waited too long to help her.

It doesn't matter. It’s done, now. They have a night to rest in Harburg, at least, in the comfort of an inn with tightly drawn curtains. Although Mel didn’t have any qualms with letting them rest on her rented floor, her two new friends clearly did. Their wariness bore no ill will, however, if the jar of burn salve Stella slipped them on their way upstairs was any indicator.

Galahad isn’t about to make use of the privacy – his preparations for sleep amount to removing his gloves and changing his socks – but his wife wastes little time between entering the room and beginning to unbutton her high-necked, black shirt. He hears her wrestle with it in the background as he unlaces his boots.

His skin feels irritated, even now, but his half vampirism and twice as many layers as Te’ijal assured that was the worst he would feel. If the low-pitched whine he hears from her is any indicator, she isn’t nearly so lucky. He pictures the charred skin of her shoulders and recalls that the shirt she’s wearing today is fastened at the back; she’s tried to coax him into unbuttoning it on a good day.

So he’s a little cautious of her answer when he asks her, not so much as tilting his head in her direction, “Is there something I can do?”

“Now, I know you’re not offering to undress me, husband.” Even picturing her smirk makes him grit his teeth.

“I am not. Certainly you can think of some other way I could offer my assistance.”

“I packed a nightgown. It’s nice and loose. Would you fetch it for me?”

It’s as easy a request as any to honor. He sifts through her bag for some time before he manages to find it, gently setting aside packages of cassia and witcheye. Wrapped up in itself, he recognizes the dress by the color; Te’ijal doesn’t own much white. Galahad keeps his head tilted towards the wall as he walks it over to her. He can see motion in his peripheral vision as she raises her arms to pull it over her head.

“When I meet your standards of modesty, my crumpet, I may have another request of you. Ah, you can look now.”

He turns, a little cautiously, but surely enough she’s smoothing out the fabric over her stomach. She smiles at him, but it seems a little strained, tempered by her discomfort. The white cloth only serves to highlight her burns, wide light straps over her shoulders contrasting their new, unnatural deep purple hue.

“That salve the moth gave to us isn’t intended for sunburn. You wouldn’t apply it on that new attractive red flush you have going.” Galahad opens his mouth to protest, but Te’ijal doesn’t give him the chance. “I know I’ve been burnt quite seriously. Will you help me survey the damage? As far as I can tell, it should only be places that were directly exposed, so I don’t think it will offend your delicate sensibilities.” She flashes a grin at him, and the tease is all genuine.

He nods, assesses her to see if her change of clothing reveals any more of her burns. Surely enough, they taper off as they reach the skin that her outfit for the day covered.

“The worst of it is centered on your shoulders,” he says, and then, a little hesitantly, “and the left side of your face. My left, I should say.”

Te’ijal winces. She raises a hand to it on reflex, cupping her own cheek. She reacts as though she’s been struck.

“I thought that felt oddly warm,” she murmurs. She sits down on the bed behind her; Galahad can’t help but wonder if she’s motivated in part by steadying herself. She’d already left the burn salve there, and now she gently picks it up and unscrews the cap of the glass jar. She rubs some easily onto her shoulders, then, “Would you help me apply the rest of this?”

He freezes in place. “I will direct you how.”

If she intended something different by her request, she doesn’t indicate it now. Instead she dips her fingers in and draws them to her face.

“Start as close to your ear as you can. At the beginning, it reaches all the way up your forehead and all the way down to your chin.”

She follows his instructions, sometimes running out of the salve on her hands and taking up more from the jar. Galahad remembers her saying, once, that she liked the feeling of creams and lotions on her skin; he thinks she's lucky not to find it unpleasant now. She’s about to skip over her jawline, but he redirects her to it.

“Lift up your chin. Your neck is a bit burnt, too, so it may be as well.”

Slowly, Te’ijal continues to cover her face with the balm. She narrowly misses a patch over her eyebrow, along her cheek. She misses most often when she has to reapply it to her fingers and then find her place again. Galahad tries not to be frustrated as he continually corrects her; if she ever hasn’t needed it, it’s likely to be now.

Still, he can’t help but bring his own hand to pinch his brow when he says, “no, wife, you’ve missed a large patch just under your eye.” She reaches her finger just below her eyelid, where Galahad knows his own face carries dark circles. He shakes his head. “No, no, a little lower.”

She manages before he can display his mounting frustration, and he nearly sighs in relief. With the occasional hitch, he guides her through the application across her face, faltering along the edges of the burn.

“Keep going a little further, wife.” Te’ijal places her fingers on her temples. “Ah, further still.” She veers wildly to the center of her forehead. “No, not so far.”

The curving, awkward form the edge of her burn takes on is difficult to describe, and for every description Galahad gives, Te’ijal manages to find a way to misinterpret it. When she next draws her hand away to bring up more salve, she somehow manages to skip a solid inch of skin parallel her nose, and Galahad finds his nails biting into the palm of his hand.

He unclenches his fist and reaches forward, taking the jar from her.

“I still have a bit to go, husband.”

“I’m aware.” He grimaces. “Allow me.”

She looks up at him, eyes a little wide. “You would?”

He’s already scooping some of the balm onto his hand. “It’s this or watch you struggle. I grow tired of the latter. Stand.”

She smiles, stepping up gracefully, then forward, so their feet nearly meet. He glowers even as he brings his hand to her face. In a quick, calculated motion, he drags the salve in the vacillating line of her burn, as if drawing a wave. He follows the curve of it outward along her forehead, drawn in close beside the bridge of her nose, darting just out of the way of her mouth, and then pushing deeper inward towards her chin. Not quite satisfied with his work, he takes just a little more balm on, applying it in sections he worries she’s missed.

When he draws his hand away, Te’ijal touches her own skin reverently. She rocks back on her heels and asks, a little sheepishly, “how do I look?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m scarred, right? How… does it look?”

“Fine,” he says, only realizing how dismissive it sounds in his voice once he’s said it. He winces. “That sounded more reassuring in my head.”

She tries to fight it, but Galahad watches the low twitch in the corners of Te’ijal’s mouth. “I should hope so,” she murmurs. "Consider me charmed by the attempt."

“You just…” he struggles for the words. “You don’t look the same, of course, but you don’t look any… different?” He nearly curses himself under his breath. “I feel the same looking at you now as I did three weeks ago.”

(That’s not exactly true, he thinks, but he doesn’t want to think about why, so he pretends it's that simple.)

It seems to work, one way or the other. Te’ijal smiles, just slightly, and when she speaks, it’s with some of her usual taunt. “Which is?”

He isn’t about to play along, but he finds he doesn’t have the heart to dismiss her tonight, either. So he doesn’t fight, just lets himself be as honest as he can be.

Galahad shrugs. “That’s my wife,” he says.

Te’ijal’s grin widens a little, her eyes softening around the edges. Her crow’s feet crinkle, just slightly. “You know,” she says, “I think I can live with that.”