Just a couple of inches.
That is all it was, the gap between Narys and Taraborn, but for all it mattered it could have been the Belegaer. He lay there, awake deep in the night, looking at her sleeping form with blurry eyes as he tries to make sense of the storm of emotions within himself.
How long had he been gone? How long had he waited to hold her, to be with her again? It had felt like too long. Yet here they were, inches apart and they couldn't touch one another, they had promised not to. How he longed to reach out, to shuffle across and kiss her neck. To take in the smell of her hair, the taste of her lips… but he couldn’t. She had betrayed him, and though he still loved her, he had yet to forgive her.
He had hurt women in such ways before, when they caught him sleeping with another. They had slapped him, or run off crying, or screamed insults at him. He had always laughed, he’d never promised them to only sleep with them, so what had it mattered if he found another bed warmer? But Narys had promised him, as he had promised her and that hurt. It hurt more than a knife in his heart, so why couldn’t he get angry at her? Perhaps it was because he could never bring himself to hurt her. As those women before had slapped him or screamed at him angrily, he couldn’t do that to her. Not once, not ever.
She had told him last night, on his return. He had found her, at this camp they were at now, and they had come together for a tight embrace, their lips meeting for the first time in forever, their fiery passions as one. He had been with her at last, she had been in his arms as he had been in hers. It had been bliss.
Until she told him what had happened.
He had been confused, hurt, angry. He didn’t know what to how or how to deal with this, he’d never experienced it before. He had yelled and shouted, punched one of the great trees and hurting his knuckles in the process. He demanded to know why she had done it, whether she still loved him or not. He had wanted to know if her happiness a moment ago had been a façade, lies and falsehoods. He had ridden off not long after that, raging as he rode into the night.
Narys shifts in her sleep, soft mumbles escaping her lips to bring Taraborn out of his thoughts. He looks her over, making sure she is alright. Her red hair in a mess across her face, pale skin reflecting moonlight from between the vibrant locks. His hand twitches, as though to brush it away but he stops himself, forcing himself not to move closer before falling back into his reverie.
He hadn’t slept that night, instead found himself roaming the deeps of Chetwood, muttering angrily to himself and succumbing to the rage and anger. Once he had calmed down sometime the following afternoon and returned to the camp to find Narys absent, he remembered something he had heard the day before. Whilst looking for her in Bree, he had spoken to Barliman who lamented that she, along with other patrons, spent more time in the Mad Boar than the Pony these days. So, he had ridden over, hoping to find her. Find her he did, and more besides.
Dagramir.
Just the sight of the man had been enough to bring his blood to a steady boil, to hear his name uttered by Narys sent it steaming. He barged in, storming across the room to grab Dagramir by the head and slam it into the table a couple of times, roaring insults at him. He didn’t just want to kill him, he wanted to make him suffer the entire time. Unfortunately, his foe was skilled in combat as well and after the surprise had worn off easily got out of Taraborn’s grip.
The man had a way with words, always knowing the perfect thing to say to add to the fires of Taraborn’s anger. “His Bitch,” he had called Narys. No one insulted Narys. Not now, not ever, and certainly not before Taraborn. With a renewed energy and hatred, he resumed the brawl, hacking and slashing with his dirk, hungry for blood Receive blood he did, pushing his dirk into Dagramir’s side as his foes thumbs pushed into his eyes to leave him with the hazy vision he was now suffering from. Mugs had been smashed into heads, chairs thrown, yet the defining moment of the fight for Taraborn had been when Narys had picked up his dirk. Dagramir was unarmed, as was Tara, yet she had thrown him the blade on request and he knew who she wanted to succeed.
Eventually, some woman whom he could only assume was the owner of the Inn, intervened with her large dog barking madly. She got between them, and Narys pushed in front of Taraborn to prevent him going for Dagramir again and he struggles to hold himself back, stopping himself from pushing past Narys to get at him. She stood boldly before him, knowing full well he could never bring himself to hurt her even in such a rabid anger. That was what he loved about her, the confidence and the fearlessness she possessed. The shouted argument with Dagramir continued, the dog barking viciously at them both, and the bar wench yelling for them to get out. Eventually, Narys turned to leave, closely followed by Taraborn.
Dagramir begged Narys not to leave with Taraborn, and seemed a broken man when she did. The sight brought some amount of mirth to Taraborn as he left behind Narys.
From there, they returned to their little camp, the walk gave him the time to calm himself, to douse the raging fires within him. This allowed him to talk properly with Narys, standing there in their hidden away camp, in one another’s arms for only a moment, but oh so tightly. He said he would forgive her, or at least do his best to try for he still loved her and knew how hard it was for someone like them to give up their lifestyle so quickly. He had even gotten close, once upon a time. One day perhaps, one day he would forgive her. Dagramir? Never.
They talk a while longer, the embrace long over till at last they lay down, the promise of not touching one another for the night remaining there, heavy on the stuffy night air. So Taraborn lies, looking across the small gap to Narys, desperate to cross that line, yet afraid of what would happen if he did.
He had a long road ahead.
