arcana-archived

[arcana-archived]

rhyder does not follow. not quite. but he does not stay, either. instead— a step. lazy, laced with longing. a comet caught in the gravitational drag of her, circling slow, reckless, inevitable. “         conveniently, inconveniently…   ” the words tumble from his mouth like stars shedding heat. a shrug, all theater, all smoke. shoulders lifting like they’ve never held the weight of wanting. his eyes, traitorous, trace the orbit of her— hips, hair, the hush she leaves behind. “        depends on which side of the memory you’re standing on.        ” he tilts his head, half-fox, half-saint. “       from where i’m standing…        ” a smirk cuts its way across his lips like a moonrise breaking surface tension. “        …looked an awful lot like a stumble.        ”

he leans into the moment, voice slipping into a secret. something shared under covers, or confessional booths, or dreams. narrowed eyes, playful venom. “        atmospheric interference,        ” he declares solemnly, “     moonlight meddling with my senses. the hazardous physics of proximity to you.        ” ( he drags fingers through his curls. theatrical exhaustion, pure pantomime. a martyr in linen. ) “        tragic,        ” he sighs, gravity-defying. “        my reputation’s hanging by a thread.        ” but then— softness like dusk bleeding into midnight. a hush at the edges of his grin. a tease, still, but with the corners blunted. “        i don’t mind the blame,        ” he says, flicking the words like copper into water, “        if it keeps your eyes on me like that.        ” light. breezy. a brushstroke. but it lands with weight. ( too much. )

she moves— and he watches. a silhouette stretched long, a motion unwinding like a ribbon caught in wind. and he — helpless moth — follows the thread, pulled whether he wants or not ( and oh, he wants )... “        careful, aleyah,        ” he calls, her name a grin between his teeth. “     you threaten me with a life without a dance—        ” his voice dripping laughter, edged in amber— “        but i don’t scare easy.        ” the doorway welcomes him like a stage. one hand against the frame, the other cradling the moment. light spills across his features in honeyed flickers. “        in fact,        ” and now— quieter, closer, the kind of softness meant for skin and shadow— “        i’d wait lifetimes for it.        ”

a beat. ( don’t blink. don’t breathe. ) and then— a grin sharp enough to slice through sentiment like a knife through silk. “       though if you make me wait too long…        ” his voice dances, “        i might get dramatic. you’ve seen what happens when boredom takes me hostage.        ” a wink. a spark. a dare dressed in charm. “        so— your move, mystery girl.        ”

a slow smile form, momentarily taken by surprise. how could she not be ? he so rarely let that mask slip off of his face. it is hard to take him by surprise. while he may act the fool infront of everyone else, it is usually so calculated. hand stay anchored between them as he take her wrist, a small hum leaving her as she watch him for a moment longer.

" personally, i think your resolve could benefit some testing, " her voice light, near a teasing thing and she would happily step up to the task. it's almost too easy at times, even if he give as good as he gets. it's fun. and it pass the time at gatherings like these. looking at the happy couple ( at least they are, for right now. ) twirling around the dance floor inside, completely lost in their own little world. she wonders how many times someone could get married before it got kinda old and repetitive.

slight nod of her head & there is a last sip of her wine, cup empty as she put it on the railing, hand hanging loosely by her side. " mmm, i guess it would be a little hard to keep it a secret from you, no ? " brow raise ever so little as she watch him, bright blues twinkle with poorly hidden amusement.

head tilt a little as he come closer, chin lifting and she peer down her nose at him. " do not worry, rhyder. i am very sure it was your tardiness and no fault of mine, " straighten up and eyes narrow ever so little, sharp smile forming. " and when was that exactly ? because i cannot recall such a thing, " slight shrug of shoulder as arms fold behind her back.

then eyes roll skywards, small roll of shoulders, head tip to the side. " keep this up and that dance will never happen. not even in our life span, " taking steps backwards towards the hall where everyone else reside. " conveniently forgetting, was it ? "

[arcana-archived]

her words— a blade without apology, silver-lit and serrated, cutting through the hush with a precision that begged no forgiveness. i would be alive. is that not enough? ( if only. if only it were. ) bastian did not startle. he did not speak. but something — small, seismic — fractured behind his eyes. the candlelight, ever the betrayer, danced across his cheekbones, turning expression to silhouette, silhouette to shadow. he might have made a quip— might have coiled her defiance like ribbon around his wrist, turned it into a gift and a curse all at once. but this — this — was no stage. not tonight. not with that ache sitting between them like an old wound reopened.

she folded in on herself. a fortress with cracked walls, drawn arms, and no one left to keep out. no glass in hand. no armor in voice. only the ache of what never was, wrapped tight in syllables that tasted like ashes and old prayers. pride, yes. but beneath it? hunger. and not the kind he knew how to feed. not the kind that demanded blood or dominion. no— this was the worse kind. the kind that gnawed at the root of the soul. hope. the final cruelty of sentient things. he inhaled once, slow and deliberate, as though his breath might steady something inside him. it didn’t. his fingers ghosted the stem of his untouched glass like a pianist who no longer believes in music. her words still hung in the air, reckless and trembling. not with fear. with want. and gods, he knew the taste of that want. knew the shape of it. knew what it did to a person.

then you met me at the wrong time. ah— the refrain. the hymn of fractured lovers. of timelines that splinter, of souls that never quite align. he almost laughed. almost. but instead— he leaned back. hands folding, silence blooming like a bruise. and when he finally spoke, his voice dipped, less sound, more confession. a dagger wrapped in velvet. “        you speak as though time has ever once been kind to us.        ” truth, bitter and metallic on the tongue. he tilted his head, gaze narrowing — not cruel, not cold — just cutting. “        you think i cannot fathom it,        ” he echoed. “        that i cannot trace the ghost of the life you lost. but tell me, rebekah… do you truly remember it? or have you rewritten her so many times she has become myth?        ”

not ridicule. not malice. only that terrible curiosity he saved for ruins and relics. because he had met her in every ruin. in every end-of-the-world. he had met her angry, radiant, burning. with blood on her teeth and kingdoms in her wake. he had met the wreckage and called it art. but the girl she mourned — the girl before the fire — he’d only seen her once. a flicker. gone. and maybe — just maybe — what chilled him now wasn’t that she wanted to find that girl again, but that she might succeed. and what then? what use would she have for him, when she no longer needed the ache? when she no longer spoke in requiems? his gaze slipped, just once. to the window. to nothing. to avoid the weight. ( he never dropped the mask. but tonight, it slipped. a breath. a crack. barely. )

“        you would be alive,        ” he said, and the phrase felt hollowed, scraped clean from the inside. “         but you would not be you.        ” and when he looked back, he was beautiful again. devastating again. a cathedral built from longing. “        i’ve met the girl who wants to be alive,        ” he murmured, “        but the woman before me? she wants more than life.        ” and maybe that — that — was what would ruin them both.

You had been marked for such sorrow since you were a child.     touched with bloodied palms,    a blame for not being a blank slate,    a fresh start in a new world.   and you had been taught by way of scarred knees and heinous violence unto others to not fight back.    your naivety had always been your shortfall,     turned into clay so that you could be moulded to any like.     a docile daughter,  a willing pawn.   you had not been raised with gentleness braided into your hair,    but in a home where blood sought blood until the bitter end.     you grew up,     the weight of their doings became too much to bear that you became the very rage that was bestowed upon you—created versions of yourself to make it feel like you still had some semblance of control.      that rage turned storm under your skin,    gathered in your body until bones can no longer hold it back–an anger inconsolable   /    a grief unending.

For centuries now,    you have longed for a happier existence,  to return to the life that was unfairly taken from you.    a life that wasn’t as gentle as you remember it,    playback of memories tinted through the lens of your own desires.      you do not think it is time you wish to rewind,     not in its entirety.     there was so much then that you could never have dreamed of accomplishing,     the freedoms that came from such a modern life.    and still,    the thought consumes you,   ravages your being until that seed grows inside you,     never satiated.

The bleeding wound is usually someone else’s,    tender and raw,     and you had never been delicate in your taking.    you feel exposed under his gaze,     an everlasting witness to your confession.     you are hollowed out,    not even a beating heart in ribcage to draw you closer to life.      a millenia did not wear away your features,   as wide-eyed as the day you died.        “i would be alive.       is that not enough?”      as if it was the simplest answer on earth;   and it was your truth.     (alive and everything that came with it)–the risk of making the wrong choice,   the consequences that follow.

He has not met her.     you are not sure of the finality, when her life ended and yours began.    was it amidst a moment before,   a frayed being lifting the knife to patriarch?   a hint at who you would become;    always wanting,    always waiting,     never taking the chance.     or was it truly when you had your first taste of blood,    metallic copper rinsed through teeth before sword found the cavern of your chest?    you do not like to dwell on those moments,       he was not there,     not yet.     whoever you were in the before was ash,   lost to the wind of time.     little remember,    fewer care.

“Then you met me at the wrong time.      hardly my fault.”        there is another possibility,     one that you did not like to consider.    that the girl you had been was always rotten inside,     just laying dormant,     waiting for layer to peel from that beautiful skin and reveal the truth below.       you’ve opted in favour of ignoring own glass,      arms wrapped tightly around torso as if to ground yourself,    pick up the pieces of confessional so carelessly thrown from throat.     but you return his stare,     never one to cower.    you hated this.    you hated that you needed this from him.    there is nothing more humiliating to you than your own desires,   bones awaiting to be picked clean by vultures.        “just because you cannot fathom it does not mean it did not exist.   it does not mean i cannot have it again.”

[arcana-archived]

he heard her before he saw her— voice like dried wine and unfinished business, a tone so crisp it could snap bone if it wanted to. eyes opened. not to see, but to confirm. she was already there, exactly as imagined— arms crossed like armor, eyes like blades dipped in something unspoken, mouth curled into that smirk-that-isn’t, her favorite lie: this doesn’t affect me. ( oh, but it does ) rhyder grinned. it caught like a flame in the dark— fast, a little wicked, a rogue spark flirting with gasoline. “        no?        ” drawled, lazy-lovely, all sin and swagger as he sank back into the embrace of old upholstery and older memories. hands buried in pockets. heart? not so much.

“        and here i was, thinking we’d come back just for the sheer joy of reliving old memories,        ” he mused, letting the city crawl past their window like an old lover seen from across the room— familiar, too close, not close enough. the scent of rain still lingered, like the sky had been crying just before they arrived and now pretended nothing happened. he didn’t need to name the weight she carried. it was in the way her fingers curled like she wanted to fight the walls for daring to still look the same. cities are like that— they settle into your marrow, wrap around your spine like ivy with teeth, and when you return, they ask quietly: do you remember who you were when you left me?

⋆˙⟡ @norgodly, ‥ ELOISE ⤑ prophesied: “        well, i did not miss this place.        ” / no longer accepting !

he glanced at her sideways, just enough to catch the tension coiled behind her ribs. “        for someone not nostalgic,        ” he said, voice soft with teeth, “        you sure look like you’re about to marry the pavement.        ” but he didn’t press. not yet. you don’t rush eloise. she’ll dig in out of spite, throw silence like daggers and call it grace. so he sank deeper, let the seat cradle him like someone who never planned to stay. looked out the other window like escape was a theory worth testing.

“        i never miss places,        ” he said to the glass, “        because the minute you start missing something, it owns you. places, people, promises. they all get teeth if you look back too long.        ” he’d mastered the art of vanishing just before the hook set in. the trick was never letting yourself believe you belonged. and yet— here he was. with her. that part didn’t really make sense. so he didn’t dwell. “        still…        ” he offered, grin resurrecting, tilted and bright with bad ideas, “        we could make something new. something stupid. something ours. i’m told i excel in places i should’ve been kicked out of.        ”

the words hung— baited, daring, deliberate. because she’d bite. she always did. not only because she trusted him, but because the chaos felt like something close to freedom. and really— what else was there? except to live wildly, foolishly, together. ( for now. )

[arcana-archived]

something fractures. a flicker— faint, the kind of thing one might miss if they didn’t know the architecture of his stillness. but she would know. he does. a shift in the marble. not at the bite in her words ( he’s tasted sharper ), but at her laughter. that laugh. not hers. not anymore. a sound made of shards, of splinters trying to mimic music. a laugh built wrong, misaligned at the foundation. it clatters through the space between them, hollow and sharp, and it tells him — without needing to say a thing — she is gone. not dead. no, worse. transfigured. and still— it does not satisfy.

he does not reach. his hands are not so foolish. he does not speak. his tongue knows restraint. he only watches. studies. consumes. as if this moment is scripture and he, the only one alive to read it. she crumbles, slowly. quietly. her shoulders folding in, breath hitching under the ache of too much unsaid. he sees the grief, the ghost-ache of a thousand swallowed cries. he sees it because he has always seen her— especially when she tries not to be seen. she looks at him like she wishes he were myth, like she could erase him with a blink, an exhale. tears glint like broken glass catching streetlight. he lets them fall. lets her fall. he lets her break. there is a silence. it stretches. holds breath. hangs.

he could open her wounds. could salt them, name them, dress them up in truth and violence. he could remind her of what was his to take. but he does not. he only tilts his head. a subtle inquisition. wears something on his face that might almost be patience— or perhaps the absence of anything left to burn. and then, with that same deliberate grace, like time ticking down to an ending already written, he lifts a hand. not to touch. gods, no. never again. just a gesture. small. to the space between them. the yawning thing. the grave they built with promises and knives. “        i suppose i did.        ” quiet. too quiet. a truth that’s old. that lives in her bones already. then— he steps away. simple. clean. “        lesson learned, then.        ” ( and perhaps that’s the cruelest thing of all. that there is no cruelty in it at all. )

it is like watching a stranger now. she does not recognize the man now before her. he look the same, but doesn't. his voice is the same, but isn't. and then it strike her, she might never have known him, the true him & it creates a new wound. fresh and tender. that every moment they spent together so long ago, it was all manifactured. it was all to get to the point of locking her up. locking them all in cards, stored away for decades.

" no, perhaps i did not think you would, " a low mumble once she finally speak. not sure what she wanted from this. to perhaps understand why ? to see if it was perhaps some misunderstanding of sort ? that maybe . . . maybe something would explain why he did it, other than in the name of power. but perhaps this is who he is now. who he's always been. he never was the one standing by her side, the one she fell for. this was a naive thing, a fools errand.

gaze locked with his, until he is free, something snaps in the air. the magic, the darkness wrapped around his throat, and something inside her with it. and there is a laugh, it pulls from her chest and crack free between them. not the warm, hearty laugh once spilling from lips however. this one feels hysterical. a shrill she doesn't recognize. because if it's not that, it's tears. or yelling. she hoped she would be a yeller, if angry. not one that cried.

" you think i have everything to lose ? " there's a smile, despite the tears forming. he is blurry as he stands infront of her & maybe it's for the better. that she can't see him. the glee probably there, as she continue. " you already took everything from me, bastian. there is nothing left for you to take, " it's exhaled softly, a defeated, tired thing.

there is a small falter. in the down quirk of lips. the way eyes flutter a little faster. the way a weight settle on her chest, the lump clogging her throat, all making it a little harder to breath. and she is the only one to hear it. but it's in the stutter, the crack and the break of her heart. because yes. he did take from her. he took everything important. everything that mattered and there is no denying it anymore. her freedom sure, but with it, he took away the people she considered family. he took away him aswell.

small nod of her head & yes, he taught her that. he taught her even more, that trust should not be handed so freely. that exile might be prefered, if it kept those she cared about from getting hurt again. he scraped it out of her, so easily, as if it didn't matter. without a care in the world really. " mmm, " there's a low hum, eyes close for a moment, feeling the tears finally roll down her cheeks. " you taught me so much more than that, "

[arcana-archived]

fingers— still, poised. a predator interrupted mid-prowl, tension rippling in the quiet. one hand buried, lazy, deep in the wool-dark hush of his coat. the other, a mere whisper against the desk’s surface. unmoving. calculating. eyes like glass catching the dim glow of a city that never learned how to sleep. a pause. a stretch of silence. a noose drawn tight enough to remind. he turns, slow as a tide that already knows where it will break. eyes on her, unreadable but knowing. she speaks. the words mean nothing. losing her interest?— a lesser man might bristle, might rise to the bait, might snap his teeth just to show them. but bastian is not a lesser man. he is something carved from the spaces between, from the hunger that lingers when the feast is gone.

something inside him coils. a whisper of ice against the frozen shore of his ribs. irritation, distant, fleeting. then, amusement. dangerous? she warns him of danger? after all the years, all the ruin, all the careful, deliberate hands in the dark? after everything he had taught her, sharpened her into? how very... quaint. he tilts his head. the smallest movement, the smallest shift. watches her, watches the flicker of fire in her, the one he had nurtured, fed, restrained. had made hers but never quite let her own. and yet— here she is, standing before him, looking at him with something that nearly, nearly, resembles defiance. how beautiful. how predictable. how very, very useful.

⋆˙⟡ @norgodly, ‥ REBEKAH ⤑ prophesied: “        you are losing my interest, and that’s very dangerous.        ” / no longer accepting !

her words are a gift. a door left ajar. she has not learned, not truly. not yet. “        is that so?        ” his voice, velvet on the cusp of a blade. a breath, a heartbeat. a pause, measured, perfect. set the snare. “        then i suppose i should be grateful for the warning.        ” a lilt, a smirk curling at the edges of something sharper. “        but tell me, my dear— what exactly would you do with that disinterest of yours? walk away? leave all of this, leave me, behind?  would you really waste centuries of patience, of carefully bartered promises, for the fleeting satisfaction of… what? proving a point?        ” the words settle, slow and heavy. drifting down like ash after a fire no one put out in time.

and then— he moves. not closer. not yet. but forward enough to catch the city’s glow against the bone-cut angles of his face. hands braced, body angled. a trap that does not need to spring, because the prey has already stepped inside. “       you and i both know,        ” soft, certain, inexorable, “        that you wouldn’t dare.        ” because for all her fire, all her bladed edges, all her weary, reckless threats— she is still here. and as long as she is here, as long as she wants, as long as she lingers at the threshold of something she cannot name— he has already won.

[arcana-archived]

always. the word is a feather suspended in a storm— weightless, delicate, impossibly brave. but his grip — theodore's grip — is gravity. solid. certain. a quiet insistence that wraps around her fingers, braids into the roots of his hair, clings to the heat of his breath as it mingles with hers. always. she asks. she still asks. not because she doesn’t know— but because knowing is terrifying. and so he answers. of course he answers. with his mouth barely brushing hers, like the world is paused between heartbeats, like they are balanced on the edge of a single breath. “        always,        ” not spoken, but exhaled, like something ancient and sacred, like a truth too holy for the shape of language. blood-oath. time-oath. reality bends around the sound of it.

the notion that he could be without her — that she could return and find his arms folded shut, his love gone cold — it does not compute. it does not exist. she is not a chapter. she is the ink. the pages. the spaces between the lines. she is written into the architecture of him, stitched into the sinew, the marrow, the breath between thoughts. his hand climbs — slow pilgrimage — to her jaw. lifts. tilts. eyes lock. dark meets dark. gravity meets gravity. “        there is no world in which i don’t love you,        ” he says, and it is not metaphor, it is math. “        no future where i just let you go.        ” no timeline. no variant. no fractured mirror of a life.

yes. there were moments — sharp, shattering — when he tried to hate her. tried to fill the void she left with fury. but rage is a brittle thing, and her voice is water. and she speaks, and he is undone. again. again. her name in his mouth: not a word. a devotion. a plea. a homecoming. he was never meant to win against her. he never wanted to. his thumb carves a path along her cheekbone, slow, reverent— like she’s being remembered again. again. as if she isn’t already carved into every corner of his memory, into the blueprint of his waiting.

he exhales, breath threading into the ends of her hair. a tether. a promise. a prayer. he has waited. he will wait. ten times. a hundred. a thousand lives. he will rebuild himself every time she leaves so he can stand whole when she returns. foreheads touch. breath aligns. time slows. “        so stop asking,        ” soft, the edges of a smirk curled like petals— not cruel, just tired of her doubt. “       you know the answer.        ” of course she does. it’s in the way the universe rearranges itself every time he says her name.

few things stood the test of time, especially with how long they had already lived, but her love for him. the pendant hanging from her neck. it would always remain. it was ever lasting, no matter how many times she might have walked away from him, no matter the adventures her whims took her on around the world. she would always find her way back to him. it felt as easy as breathing, he was her true north. the center of her universe, the anchor she needed, even when she tried to escape it.

even if there is that tinge of fear lurking beneath the surface. that perhaps one day, she will return & he won't take her back, because she hurt him too much. she crossed a line she couldn't come back from. or worse, he had found someone else to pour his love into, too tired to wait for her. but for now, she remain securely tucked away in his arms, that soft, loving, adoring smile upon features as she watch him.

a small nod of her head, fingers thread through his hair, simply enjoying the moment of being back with him. because somehow, they are too rare sometimes. too far between and she truly do hate the distance. ( even when she is the one putting it there, time and time again. ) there is always that wish to go back, right here. always back to him, even if faith wants to pull them apart. snag her away, as if not letting her truly be happy with him. not all the time anyways.

i like having it with me. i like having you with me. he always is. in her heart. in the testimony of her love for him, always keeping the necklace with her. a part of him, as if he was not always sown into the fabric of her very being. there would be no her, without him.

feeling the brush of his nose, and she melt. fully. wholly into him. only layers of clothes between them & she lean closer, as if it's not quite close enough still. as if perhaps she could tuck herself beneath his skin and make herself home there.

breaths mingle together, close and where she is supposed to be. always supposed to be here. she end up here, always. and she would have it no other way. there is nobody she loves like him, nobody she would want to spent the rest of her life with. nobody that give her such grace, such understanding. breath catch in the back of her throat, and somehow it always take her by surprise. every time they reunite & there is that brief doubt, before he manage to wash it all away in a few words. a few touches.

forehead press to his and while eyes stay closed for a moment longer, she soak up the words. let them sink into her soul, into her heart. a soft sound comes from the back of her throat, nose nuzzle against his. " always ? " it's a soft inquire, barely audible between them, as if she near doesn't dare ask it.

[arcana-archived]

he watched her. not with affection— rarely that. not even with curiosity, not truly. no, bastian watched like a surgeon might before the first incision: with practiced precision, with the glint of delight barely hidden behind the scalpel. amusement curled, slow and syrup-thick at the edges of his mouth. but beneath it — something heavier — a weight unnamed, unnameable, pressing down on the bones of the moment. his head tilted, slight, deliberate. the kind of tilt that meant calculation, that meant he was measuring — her, this, the now — to see whether it was time to break her apart or let her believe, for a moment longer, that she still held some piece of herself.

his fingers moved. a rhythm, soft. tap, tap, tap. each beat a clock in a room with no time. you don’t know me as well as you think. a line cast like a curse. an accusation left to rot in the air between them. but bastian did not rot. he did not bruise. not from that. not anymore. he breathed. slow. measured. enough to imply calm. enough to bait. “        don’t i?        ” soft, like silk over broken glass. the kind of softness that cuts when held too long. he leaned into her with his gaze alone, dissecting. “        tell me, then—        ” voice a whisper, velvet and venom, “        what part of you still refuses me? what haven remains untouched? what myth have i not already unearthed in you, rebekah?        ”

⋆˙⟡ @norgodly, ‥ REBEKAH ⤑ prophesied: “        you don't know me as well as you think.        ” / no longer accepting !

her name slid from his tongue like the final line of a poem that doesn’t end. rebekah mikaelsdóttir. thunder made flesh. a god’s child dressed in centuries of ash and ruin. he’d seen her destroy. watched her unmake men and monsters alike with a kind of elegance that felt like cruelty. had seen her love, too— though it was always the kind of love that left fire in its wake. still, she looked at him— not with fear, not with awe, but with the terrifying steadiness of a mirror that doesn’t lie. she wanted. ( and oh, he did too. ) their connection had always worn the costume of transaction: need wearing the mask of civility. she, longing for something impossibly soft— a heartbeat unchained from blood. a life. a myth of peace. he— he wanted the chaos of her. the might. the mercilessness. the sharp-toothed flame that would destroy his enemies without ever touching him. but beneath that — deeper still — he wanted her. not as a weapon. not as war. as something holy. something ruinous. something that might love him.

he leaned in. just slightly. just enough. locked eyes. a blade unsheathed. “        i know you,        ” he said, voice falling like dusk. “        i know the ache beneath your fury. the hope you won’t admit you carry. i know that part of you still waits— for something more than survival. more than strategy. more than me, maybe. but i’m the only one who’s ever come close, aren’t i?        ” the truth didn’t need volume. and then— he withdrew. just as easily. a retreat, yes— but strategic. surgical. sinister. his smile returned, but the eyes were graveyards. “        maybe you’re right,        ” he offered, not as surrender but as lure. “        maybe i’ve missed something.        ” a beat. a breath. bait. hook. pause. “        so tell me, my dear— what is it you believe i’ve yet to see?        ” ( he already knew. but it would mean more if she bled it for him. )