20. Vaedros
VAEDROS
Distance becomes the first necessity, and I take it without discussion, without permission, carrying her farther than required until the sounds of the earlier encounter dissolve completely into the layered quiet of the forest, until even the memory of movement behind us loses immediacy and becomes calculation instead of threat.
She thrashes against me at first, cursing under her breath, demanding I release her, but I do not, because her judgment has become unreliable and mine is currently the only thing standing between us and another beautifully executed disaster.
By the time she stops fighting, her silence is not surrender. It is fury waiting for better footing.
The ground here rises into a shallow incline scattered with dark stone and sparse undergrowth, open enough to prevent concealment, enclosed enough to contain what needs to be said, and I choose it deliberately because control of space precedes control of anything else.
I set her down. Carefully, but not gently. I am still angry with her.
Her balance fails immediately, and she reaches for me without intending to, fingers catching briefly at my coat before she steadies herself, the motion small but impossible to ignore.
The moment lingers longer than it should, then breaks as she pulls her hand away like the contact itself offends her.
I do not step back. Neither does she. Good.
“Explain,” I say.
No preamble. No softening. No patience.
Her breathing remains uneven, though she forces it into something resembling control, lifting her chin slightly in that familiar gesture that attempts to reclaim ground she has already lost.
“There’s nothing to explain.”
The lie is immediate. I almost admire the consistency.
“There is,” I reply, voice low, controlled, carrying far more weight than volume requires, “and you are going to give it to me in detail.”
Her eyes narrow. “You are not allowed to demand?—”
“I do,” I cut in, stepping forward, closing the distance just enough to force her attention fully onto me, “when your decisions nearly get us killed.”
“That wasn’t?—”
“That was exactly what it was.”
I do not raise my voice. I do not need to.
“You redirected us away from a stable path based on incomplete or incorrect information,” I continue, each word placed deliberately, constructed to dismantle resistance rather than provoke it.
“You withheld uncertainty. You acted on assumption instead of confirmation. Then you hesitated when the consequence appeared.”
Her jaw tightens. “I didn’t hesitate.”
“You did,” I say, and I watch the reaction land, sharp and immediate, because she knows I am right. “Not in movement. In judgment. You chose the wrong moment to trust yourself.”
Anger flashes across her face, bright enough to almost mask something deeper.
“I saw it collapse,” she insists. “I saw you fall?—”
“And instead,” I interrupt, stepping closer again, forcing her to either hold ground or retreat, “you led us directly into a worse outcome.”
Her back meets stone. She does not move away. Everything narrows into something charged, unstable, carrying far more than the argument itself.
“You don’t understand what I’m seeing,” she says, voice sharper now, edged with something that is no longer purely defensive.
“Then explain it,” I reply.
“I can’t.”
“That is not an answer I accept.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
The refusal is clean. For a moment, I consider breaking it. Pushing harder. Applying pressure in the precise way I know will fracture that control she is clinging to.
I begin.
“You’re filtering information,” I say, voice lowering further, tightening between us until the conversation becomes something contained, unavoidable. “Choosing what to share based on outcome rather than accuracy. That makes your visions less reliable, not more.”
“That’s not what’s happening.”
“It is,” I press. “And it’s getting worse. Your reactions are inconsistent. Your decisions are reactive instead of predictive. Something has changed, and you are compensating for it badly.”
Her breath catches.
“You think I don’t know that?” she snaps, anger finally breaking through in full. “You think I don’t feel it every time it happens?”
“Then stop making it worse.”
“I’m trying to survive.”
“So am I.”
The words collide between us, neither yielding, both grounded in truth that refuses compromise.
Silence follows, but it is not empty. It builds. Tightens. Then she says it.
“I’ve seen you kill me.”
The words land harder than anything else she could have offered. There is no hesitation in them. No attempt to soften. Just raw, unfiltered truth. I do not move.
“How so?” I say again, but this time the words carries something different beneath it. Necessity.
Her gaze locks onto mine, searching, measuring, daring me to dismiss it.
“You take everything from me,” she says, voice quieter now, but far more dangerous. “Every vision. Every piece of it. Until there’s nothing left to give. And then you decide I’m no longer useful.”
The image forms in my mind despite myself. Unpleasant. Precise. I have no such plans for her. Never had.
“And you believe that,” I say.
“I saw it.”
“That does not make it inevitable.”
“It makes it possible.”
“Everything is possible.”
“Not everything feels real like that did.”
The conviction in her voice is enough to give pause.
“You’re allowing that possibility to dictate your actions,” I say.
“I’m accounting for it.”
“You’re letting it control you.”
“And you’re trying to convince me it shouldn’t.”
“I’m telling you it’s inefficient. I am not trying to hurt you.”
A humorless laugh escapes her. “Of course you are.”
I reach for control again.
“And what would you prefer?” I ask. “That I ignore the fact that you’re making decisions based on fear of something that hasn’t happened? No matter how many times I tell you I won't hurt you.”
“I would prefer you stop pretending you wouldn’t do it.”
The words land exactly as intended, with a precision that leaves no room for dismissal, their meaning settling between us with a weight that is clean, direct, and impossible to ignore.
She doesn't trust me. And she really thinks I would kill her.
I feel the change the moment it happens, subtle but undeniable, something tightening beneath the surface of her control as the distance between us loses whatever illusion it had left.
I step closer, closing that space entirely, until there is nothing left to buffer the tension building between us, nothing left to soften what comes next.
“Then test it,” I say quietly.
Her breath stutters.
“Test what?”
“Your fear.”
This settles between us heavy with implication.
“You believe I will turn on you,” I continue, holding her gaze, refusing to look away, refusing to allow retreat into abstraction. “That I will use you until you’re no longer useful. That I will remove you when the cost outweighs the benefit.”
“Yes.”
“Then act on it.”
Confusion flickers.
“What?”
“If you believe it,” I say, voice low, steady, deliberate, “then stop standing here.”
Her pulse jumps visibly at her throat.
“Run,” I add. “Fight. Do something that aligns with that certainty you’re so convinced of.”
She doesn’t move, and I know she won’t, not because she lacks the instinct, but because some part of her is already questioning the very foundation she’s been standing on, and that hesitation holds her in place more effectively than any restraint I could impose.
The silence stretches between us, tightening with every second she remains where she is.
“You’re trying to provoke me,” she says.
“Yes.”
“At least you’re honest about it.”
“I see no reason to hide it.”
“Because you think I won’t act.”
“I know you won’t.”
“Don’t—”
“Because part of you doesn’t believe it,” I finish, closing the final inch of space between us, my voice dropping to something quieter, sharper, far more dangerous than anything raised. “And that part is the one making decisions.”
Her breath comes faster now. Not from fear alone. Something else has entered the space, something that has been building for far too long without resolution.
“You can’t tell me what I believe in,” she says, but the edge has shifted, no longer cleanly defensive.
“I don’t need to,” I reply. “You’re showing me.”
She pushes against me then, sudden, sharp, hands braced against my chest with enough force to be real, to mean something.
“Stop analyzing everything,” she snaps, the frustration in her voice sharp enough to cut through the control I’ve been holding onto.
I catch her wrists as she pushes against me, not with enough force to hurt, not with any intention of restraining her beyond the moment itself, but enough to halt the motion, enough to keep her exactly where she is as the tension between us tightens instead of breaking.
“That’s not going to happen.”
Her gaze drops briefly to where my hands hold hers, to the point of contact neither of us has chosen to acknowledge until now, and then lifts again, slower this time.
Something shifts, becoming charged, unstable, close enough that every change in her breathing, every slight movement of her body registers with uncomfortable clarity.
“You think this is control,” she says, quieter now.
“It is.”
“It’s not.”
“How so?.”
“You’re reacting,” she says, holding my gaze. “Just like I am.”
The accusation settles deeper than it should, not because it’s unexpected, but because it carries enough truth to disrupt the structure I’ve been maintaining, and I feel the shift before I can fully contain it.
My grip tightens slightly..
“Then do something with it,” I say.
The words have barely left my mouth before she moves, and this time it isn’t resistance or retreat, but something far more deliberate as she closes the remaining distance between us instead of pulling away.