Jealousy - Ilaria

Ilaria is not prone to jealousy. At least, she doesn’t think she is. She doesn’t exactly have a lot to go on, having only brief flings before she met you. Now she’s reluctantly burdened in matters of the heart, even if she hasn’t yet informed you. Perhaps that changes things, but she never pegged herself to be a jealous person.

Then, as you’re passing through town, a man gets far too close for comfort. Her hand is on her knives immediately but she falters. She watches, carefully, as he speaks to you with a cocky grin and the air of a man who has always gotten what he wanted. A rich man, she surmises from the state of his dress and the stupid looking hat perched on his head.

Those are the worst kind of men. Ilaria knows that well.

She waits to see if you welcome the advances. She has no claim over you, not right now, not when she can’t bring herself to admit the way you make her feel. She cannot stop you from doing what you wish, even if what you wish is playing a fool nobleman for all the money he’s worth. She can’t even entertain the thought of doing so.

Maybe it’s because she knows she has no right. Despite the fact that seeing someone else touch you so familiarly feels like she’s plunged one of her own daggers into her heart, she’s not delusional.

She knows you deserve better than her. That damned scar lingers over your chest, just shy of your heart, and she was the one that put it there. How can she feel entitled to make decisions about the very life she almost ended?

Then you tense, your lips purse, your hands clench into fists at your side. It’s enough for her to justify what comes next.

In an instant a knife has been loosed from her hand, striking the man’s foolish hat and pinning it to the wall behind him.

He freezes, horror filling his face, and he must understand the truth of the matter when he sees her. He knows that she is not someone he wants to have this little dance with, because it won’t end in petty words and political jabs. It will end in his blood.

She stalks forward. With each step she takes, he stumbles backwards, looking for all the world like he’s facing the reaper itself. He’s not far off; it wouldn’t be the first time she’s been called Death.

He cowers for a second before standing and trying to hold his ground, the gold in his pockets giving him some modicum of strength.

“And who are you, exactly?” He speaks with a trembling voice, “I could have you thrown in the stocks for that little stunt!

“If you’re not dead before you reach the guards,” She says coldly, toying with another knife in her hand.

That saps any of his confidence, and he huffs before making a tactical retreat. She watches him go before turning to you.

You’re already looking at her, your eyebrows raised.

“What?” She snips, probably sounding more than a little defensive.

“Nothing.” A small grin curves your lips, growing wider when you glance at the wall, “He left is his hat!”

You break into a fit of laughter as Ilaria rips her knife from the wall, letting the hat fall to the dirt.

“Good. We did him a favor.” She says bluntly, “That thing is atrocious.”

She turns, walking away at a brisk pace to avoid any more dissection under your eyes. You catch up quickly, however, and your shoulder brushes with her own.

“Thank you,” You say quietly.

“It was my pleasure, trust me.” She rolls her eyes, “Men like that are pathetic.”

“I won’t argue,” A chuckle escapes you as you shrug, “And he was quite gross, so thank you for handling it.”

“You could have just as well,” She dismisses, “I’ve seen you fight before, remember?”

“It’s nice to not have to though,” Your words are quiet, “Sometimes I get tired of fighting.”

Then you walk ahead, angling for the tavern in the distance where you’ve both rented a room. Her heart, meanwhile, has dropped to her stomach.

You won’t have to fight if you don’t want to, she tells herself. Ilaria is perfectly capable of doing the dirty work for you.