[ Godfrey Gwilym had seen mornings beyond count. Few have felt as impossible to imagine as this one, for he was a creature of habit.
Long had his sunrises been humble and predictable; he woke before the sun, he prayed before an eastward window as it followed him, he prepared food, he broke his fast. The particulars might change occasionally – a spire of rose quartz and a chained dawn-symbol for an altar, extra mouths to feed, his husband’s sleeping form below his cheek - but all had been fundamentally the same, all had been humble. He had started none between silk sheets, nor within such gorgeously appointed walls.
The warm weight against his chest, too, is new.
Such luxuries can’t be a novel thing to him, for it was Gale who had convinced him to allow this private room be paid for, separate of their arrangement with the Elfsong. The luxuries that still Godfrey from toes to tongue with awestruck gratitude are surely a simple fact of life to Gale Dekarios and his impressive family name – he certainly acted like it, with impressive nonchalance. Often has Godfrey marveled at this; the simple grace with which Gale receives these things, never once questioning whether they’ve been earned as Godfrey finds himself doing. How different their upbringings must have been, that Gale knows innately what he deserves while Godfrey is left paralyzed by its offering.
In the heart of such a conundrum is where Godfrey lies now, his thumb traveling thoughtfully over the round cup of Gale’s shoulder, watching the slow rise and fall of his back in the pale morning light. Feeling fully against his skin the warmth of their coupling blushing in the sheets, the heavy and trusting weight of his love against his body – more than strong enough to support it. Feeling the sleeping tangle of his limbs around him, anything to keep him in bed.
He can only feel these things for so long, of course. The sun already begins its divine ascent outside; Gale had thoughtfully considered his morning rituals and politely demanded a room with an eastbound window. Godfrey presses a slow kiss into his forehead and, carefully, begins the daily challenge of untangling himself from his embrace, rubbing his back until he settles back against the bed in sleep.
There had been some obvious concessions, naturally; Godfrey knew that Gale would not sleep without the windows covered, despite his protestations to the contrary, and so were the windows covered in thick curtains to shadow the room, his eastern dawn-portal included. A thin shaft of infant dawnlight falls against the desk he’s adopted for a makeshift altar, and on it stands his divine tools; a censure with sand and incense prearranged, a smooth disc of rose quartz, his Holy Book, the dawn amulet atop a pool of molten gold chain. Godfrey takes his seat and begins as he always does; he reaches to bathe his hands in the light.
He nearly doesn’t register the silvery pain flashing in his eyes. Godfrey pulls his hands back, suddenly too aware of the smell of burning flesh. A sound like the very mountains grinding fills his ears, and after that, a livid boom:
YOU.
It’s a voice he knows he is not meant to contain, but which thrashes against the boundaries of him all the same. Searing agony wells in the pit of his skull. Godfrey buckles and pulls his throat around the scream that would erupt from him.
YOU, WHO CONSORTS WITH HERETICS.
Its sonic force threatens to topple him, and he latches himself to the desk. White burning coils through him, seizing his heart. The very air evaporates from his lungs. They scream their starvation.
YOU, WHO WOULD NAME THE VILE DEAD FRIEND.
It all begins to coalesce into something he can’t suppress. Nausea rampages through him. His skin flashes cold as sweat overwhelms him. Bile splashes the floorboards below his feet.
YOU, WHO WALKS SHOULDER TO SHOULDER ALONGSIDE DEVIL-WORSHIPPERS AND THE DARK LADY’S MINERS.
]
Gale--
[ The wretched vise tightens around his heart. Godfrey feels himself crushed beneath something immense and impossible to bear. His head smashes the desk.
YOU WOULD CLAIM TO KNOW WHAT MY LIGHT MAY TOUCH.
His breathing is the gasps of a drowned man.
HE WHO IS UNDESERVING OF ITS CARESS.
The tears are molten gold on his face. His heart struggles in his ears, thumping madly.
HE WHO WILL LEARN.
All thought is scorched from his mind, and as the white-hot glow overwhelms his vision, his name erupts from him, his voice pulled tight by the mad panic. ]
[Though still relatively new, there is already comfort in this morning routine they have begun to develop. Godfrey has always risen to meet the dawn, and Gale would do nothing to stand in the way of that, however much he might wish for them to remain tangled among the sheets together just a bit longer.
As he has done every morning since they had begun, Gale begins to stir softly as Godfrey disentangles himself, mumbling something incoherent but undeniably fond in protest under his breath. Godfrey's soothing efforts are as effective as they always are; the wizard's hold on his partner loosens and he drops back to the pillow below, caught between sleep and wakefulness, and settles for letting his hand trail down the length of Godfrey's forearm as the larger man pulls away, Gale subconsciously curling his fingers against his palm slightly just before they part.
Godfrey would pray, and sometime afterwards, Gale would rise and join him for breakfast, and together they would see what the day held. Until then, Gale would allow sleep to gently drag him back downwards into its embrace, curled up in the circle of warmth Godfrey had left in his wake.
There is a sudden shift in the atmosphere that tugs at his senses, causing him to stir a second time, but it is the scream that pierces the air a heartbeat afterwards that shocks him awake, eyes flying wide open as he feels a spike of terror surge through him. Covers are thrown aside as he all but trips over himself scrambling out of bed; adrenaline has forced sleep from his eyes just in time for him to see Godfrey become violently ill on the floor, a sense of dread all-encompassing as he rushes to his side.]
Godfrey, are you—
[His own panic is scarcely contained, fearful as he drops to his knees beside the paladin just as Godfrey's head smashes against surface of the table; Gale grabs hold of his shoulders to try and right him, his heart beating rapidly despite being lodges in his throat.]
My love, I'm here, can you—?!
[Can you hear me? But Godfrey himself is gasping for breath, gold streaming from his eyes, and Gale finds his own words seized from him.]
[ Please strangles in his throat, combusted by the painful dawn blooming in his chest.
Often, sunrises are slow, pensive affairs. Dawn-side prayer is a soft and sacred thing, which brought watercolours to Godfrey's world; inky blue and deep, deep purples giving way for pinks and gentle violets and soft oranges, or the rich brilliance of more adventurous colours, or the soft fogginess of a gray rain-shower. Regardless of how it looked, sunrise always brought much of the same. Recollection, peace, the edge of awakening. Before the rest of the world caught up, this precipice is where Godfrey would sit and collect himself, and lay thought and deed bare for his Lord. He watched the dawn's rays stretch across the world, from that little window to the next plane. He thought it often His gaze, stretching across impossible distances, beholding the mortal plane.
Holding him in His regard.
Godfrey feels something impossible within him. He recedes from Gale, his touch, his voice, his concern - it runs farther and farther from him. Is he getting smaller, or farther away? He doesn't know. He won't ever know. The dawn is in his chest, ringing through him; it is strangling him, and it is spilling from his eyes in glowing molten brilliance, and it is burning every moisture from him. His mouth turns to sand. Blood drains from him. It is a dawn's ferocity with none of its peace.
It pushes in. The borders of him crack. Mountainous hands brace against the invisible pieces as it pushes its way in, and the dawn-light blots Godfrey's eyes to two glowing points of sunlight. ]
[Godfrey is heavy in his arms, an impossible weight against his chest as Gale struggles to hold him up, his own heart racing and beating furiously against the inside of his ribcage.]
No, no!
[He doesn't recognize his own voice, raw and desperate, and he places a hand flat against Godfrey's chest and the blossoming heat within it, clenching his jaw as the paladin's eyes give way to brilliant light. He is all instinct now, pushing back against whatever this is that has taken hold of his lover, fighting to expel it with the sheer force of the arcane powers that flows through his own veins, drawn from the very atmosphere, and yet for all the strength he has regained, he can feel the futility of it, feel that this force he rails against is nothing less than divine.]
Godfrey!
[His voice echoes as it reaches the rafters— but already, he fears it falls on deaf ears, that the man in his arms has slipped beyond his reach.]
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lol and lmao
Long had his sunrises been humble and predictable; he woke before the sun, he prayed before an eastward window as it followed him, he prepared food, he broke his fast. The particulars might change occasionally – a spire of rose quartz and a chained dawn-symbol for an altar, extra mouths to feed, his husband’s sleeping form below his cheek - but all had been fundamentally the same, all had been humble. He had started none between silk sheets, nor within such gorgeously appointed walls.
The warm weight against his chest, too, is new.
Such luxuries can’t be a novel thing to him, for it was Gale who had convinced him to allow this private room be paid for, separate of their arrangement with the Elfsong. The luxuries that still Godfrey from toes to tongue with awestruck gratitude are surely a simple fact of life to Gale Dekarios and his impressive family name – he certainly acted like it, with impressive nonchalance. Often has Godfrey marveled at this; the simple grace with which Gale receives these things, never once questioning whether they’ve been earned as Godfrey finds himself doing. How different their upbringings must have been, that Gale knows innately what he deserves while Godfrey is left paralyzed by its offering.
In the heart of such a conundrum is where Godfrey lies now, his thumb traveling thoughtfully over the round cup of Gale’s shoulder, watching the slow rise and fall of his back in the pale morning light. Feeling fully against his skin the warmth of their coupling blushing in the sheets, the heavy and trusting weight of his love against his body – more than strong enough to support it. Feeling the sleeping tangle of his limbs around him, anything to keep him in bed.
He can only feel these things for so long, of course. The sun already begins its divine ascent outside; Gale had thoughtfully considered his morning rituals and politely demanded a room with an eastbound window. Godfrey presses a slow kiss into his forehead and, carefully, begins the daily challenge of untangling himself from his embrace, rubbing his back until he settles back against the bed in sleep.
There had been some obvious concessions, naturally; Godfrey knew that Gale would not sleep without the windows covered, despite his protestations to the contrary, and so were the windows covered in thick curtains to shadow the room, his eastern dawn-portal included. A thin shaft of infant dawnlight falls against the desk he’s adopted for a makeshift altar, and on it stands his divine tools; a censure with sand and incense prearranged, a smooth disc of rose quartz, his Holy Book, the dawn amulet atop a pool of molten gold chain. Godfrey takes his seat and begins as he always does; he reaches to bathe his hands in the light.
He nearly doesn’t register the silvery pain flashing in his eyes. Godfrey pulls his hands back, suddenly too aware of the smell of burning flesh. A sound like the very mountains grinding fills his ears, and after that, a livid boom:
It’s a voice he knows he is not meant to contain, but which thrashes against the boundaries of him all the same. Searing agony wells in the pit of his skull. Godfrey buckles and pulls his throat around the scream that would erupt from him.
Its sonic force threatens to topple him, and he latches himself to the desk. White burning coils through him, seizing his heart. The very air evaporates from his lungs. They scream their starvation.
It all begins to coalesce into something he can’t suppress. Nausea rampages through him. His skin flashes cold as sweat overwhelms him. Bile splashes the floorboards below his feet.
Gale--
[ The wretched vise tightens around his heart. Godfrey feels himself crushed beneath something immense and impossible to bear. His head smashes the desk.
His breathing is the gasps of a drowned man.
The tears are molten gold on his face. His heart struggles in his ears, thumping madly.
All thought is scorched from his mind, and as the white-hot glow overwhelms his vision, his name erupts from him, his voice pulled tight by the mad panic. ]
lmao a cozy au for us as a treat
As he has done every morning since they had begun, Gale begins to stir softly as Godfrey disentangles himself, mumbling something incoherent but undeniably fond in protest under his breath. Godfrey's soothing efforts are as effective as they always are; the wizard's hold on his partner loosens and he drops back to the pillow below, caught between sleep and wakefulness, and settles for letting his hand trail down the length of Godfrey's forearm as the larger man pulls away, Gale subconsciously curling his fingers against his palm slightly just before they part.
Godfrey would pray, and sometime afterwards, Gale would rise and join him for breakfast, and together they would see what the day held. Until then, Gale would allow sleep to gently drag him back downwards into its embrace, curled up in the circle of warmth Godfrey had left in his wake.
There is a sudden shift in the atmosphere that tugs at his senses, causing him to stir a second time, but it is the scream that pierces the air a heartbeat afterwards that shocks him awake, eyes flying wide open as he feels a spike of terror surge through him. Covers are thrown aside as he all but trips over himself scrambling out of bed; adrenaline has forced sleep from his eyes just in time for him to see Godfrey become violently ill on the floor, a sense of dread all-encompassing as he rushes to his side.]
Godfrey, are you—
[His own panic is scarcely contained, fearful as he drops to his knees beside the paladin just as Godfrey's head smashes against surface of the table; Gale grabs hold of his shoulders to try and right him, his heart beating rapidly despite being lodges in his throat.]
My love, I'm here, can you—?!
[Can you hear me? But Godfrey himself is gasping for breath, gold streaming from his eyes, and Gale finds his own words seized from him.]
no subject
Often, sunrises are slow, pensive affairs. Dawn-side prayer is a soft and sacred thing, which brought watercolours to Godfrey's world; inky blue and deep, deep purples giving way for pinks and gentle violets and soft oranges, or the rich brilliance of more adventurous colours, or the soft fogginess of a gray rain-shower. Regardless of how it looked, sunrise always brought much of the same. Recollection, peace, the edge of awakening. Before the rest of the world caught up, this precipice is where Godfrey would sit and collect himself, and lay thought and deed bare for his Lord. He watched the dawn's rays stretch across the world, from that little window to the next plane. He thought it often His gaze, stretching across impossible distances, beholding the mortal plane.
Holding him in His regard.
Godfrey feels something impossible within him. He recedes from Gale, his touch, his voice, his concern - it runs farther and farther from him. Is he getting smaller, or farther away? He doesn't know. He won't ever know. The dawn is in his chest, ringing through him; it is strangling him, and it is spilling from his eyes in glowing molten brilliance, and it is burning every moisture from him. His mouth turns to sand. Blood drains from him. It is a dawn's ferocity with none of its peace.
It pushes in. The borders of him crack. Mountainous hands brace against the invisible pieces as it pushes its way in, and the dawn-light blots Godfrey's eyes to two glowing points of sunlight. ]
no subject
No, no!
[He doesn't recognize his own voice, raw and desperate, and he places a hand flat against Godfrey's chest and the blossoming heat within it, clenching his jaw as the paladin's eyes give way to brilliant light. He is all instinct now, pushing back against whatever this is that has taken hold of his lover, fighting to expel it with the sheer force of the arcane powers that flows through his own veins, drawn from the very atmosphere, and yet for all the strength he has regained, he can feel the futility of it, feel that this force he rails against is nothing less than divine.]
Godfrey!
[His voice echoes as it reaches the rafters— but already, he fears it falls on deaf ears, that the man in his arms has slipped beyond his reach.]