He is like Tristan, but different, too. For one thing: he feels shame.
“If you insist,” she says after a beat, a little sad that he is so wracked with guilt. “I forgive you.” Even if I think – if I hope – you wouldn’t change anything, if you could…
Perhaps she is a terrible, selfish creature after all. It had been a relief to feel seen, and wanted, without the context of who she was or what she could give. Without the strategic value she might offer. Without the elevation of a fine dress and even finer manners…with only her grit, her cleverness, her bravery to endear her to him. And her beauty, she supposes – she hadn’t left that behind, when she’d been thrown onto the island.
But Gawain may be right; she is something to Tristan. Maybe not what she wishes, but something. In her naïveté, she may not understand the gravity of what they’ve done.
If anything. He doesn’t seem to remember, either.
“Do you keep one on your person?” She smiles wryly, wondering why in the world he would make such an offer, highly suspecting he would blush himself crimson if she did remember and want to discuss it. Do people discuss it? She doesn’t have enough experience to know what that might mean.
She might have laughed at her outrageous speculations, but he changes the subject. This one is even harder than the first. Her eyes drift to his chest, to the teacup in her hand, to the fire. It is easy to imagine what he is thinking – the picture springs freshly to her mind.
“You’re not imagining it. He seems…I don’t know how he seems.” It is distracting for him to be so close, given the earlier topic, but only enough to make it several shades harder to articulate what she means. “He has changed,” she begins with a sigh, knowing this is an oversimplification, especially given the circumstances. Tristan has changed, but much less in her eyes than his brother’s. “It’s hard to describe. In some ways he has been like this for a long time: a bit reckless with wine, with…”
She clears her throat, forces herself to meet Gawain’s eyes.
“With women. Nothing is new, but everything is heightened.
She does not want to go into detail – she does not want to be unfair. It is impossible to describe his habits without her own jealousy sliding in beside them. Even this much makes her shake her head slightly, to clear her thoughts. She has always known that the rogue was a mask, a shield, that Tristan used to protect himself from being truly known. But now…“He was never very good at talking about the hard things. And so much has happened – he’s carrying so much. I want to help him, but I don’t know how.”
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