Awkwardness in Dawn

The first sensation was warmth. Not the pervasive, life-giving heat that had pulled him from the icy depths, but a localized, solid warmth enveloping his right hand. It was comfortable, anchoring, a steady presence in the lingering haze of exhaustion. Elias Vance drifted slowly towards consciousness, the deep, restorative sleep loosening its hold. He became aware of the soft texture of linen beneath his cheek, the faint scent of lavender still clinging to the pillowcase, the coolness of the morning air on his face where the blanket didn't cover.

Then came the awareness of the weight. A pleasant heaviness settled over his hand, radiating warmth up his arm. He shifted minutely, a sigh escaping his lips as he burrowed slightly deeper into the pillow, reluctant to leave the cocoon of comfort. His fingers flexed unconsciously against the source of the warmth. It felt… solid. Reassuring. Familiar.

His eyelids fluttered open, heavy with sleep. The pre-dawn light filtering through the gap in the heavy curtains painted the room in soft, silvery-grey tones. He blinked, clearing the blur of sleep, his gaze drifting downwards towards his hand.

And froze.

His hand was not resting on the blanket. It was held, firmly but gently, within another, much larger hand. Calloused fingers overlapped his own, the grip relaxed in sleep but undeniably possessive. His gaze traced the line of a powerful forearm, encased in the dark, familiar fabric of a Commander's tunic sleeve, resting on the edge of his bed. It led upwards, past the curve of a broad shoulder, to Theron Blackwood's face.

Theron was slumped awkwardly in the straight-backed chair Elias usually used for reading. His head had fallen forward, his chin resting on his chest. His black hair, usually meticulously ordered, was slightly tousled, falling across his forehead. His features, in sleep, were stripped of their usual stern command. The harsh lines were softened, the perpetual tension around his eyes and mouth eased. He looked younger, vulnerable, and utterly exhausted. The faintest hint of stubble shadowed his jaw. He breathed deeply and evenly, lost in a sleep as profound as the one Elias had just left.

A wave of heat, entirely different from the comforting warmth of Theron's hand, flooded Elias's face, rushing from his neck to the roots of his silver-blonde hair. His heart, a moment ago calm, began a frantic, erratic drumming against his ribs. Theron. Here. All night. Holding my hand. The intimacy of it, the sheer violation of the brutal distance Theron himself had enforced, crashed over him. Shame, embarrassment, and a treacherous, undeniable flicker of something warmer tangled together in his chest.

He instinctively tried to pull his hand away, a small, panicked movement.

The shift was minute, but Theron reacted with the lightning reflexes of a seasoned warrior jolted from an uneasy doze. His head snapped up, amber eyes flying open. They were momentarily unfocused, clouded with sleep, but sharpened almost instantly into intense awareness. His grip on Elias's hand tightened reflexively for a fraction of a second before he registered where he was, who he was holding, and the wide-eyed, crimson-faced Cardinal staring back at him.

Their gazes locked.

Time stopped. The soft grey light seemed to crystallize around them. Theron's eyes, now fully alert, held a storm of emotions Elias couldn't fully decipher – surprise, a flicker of something like chagrin, a dawning awareness of the profound intimacy of the situation, and beneath it all, a fierce, protective intensity that hadn't diminished with the night. Elias saw his own shock and profound embarrassment mirrored in Theron's gaze, quickly masked by a familiar, defensive hardness.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, charged with the unspoken weight of the entire night – the desperate warmth given, the silent vigil kept, the unconscious trust offered and accepted. It was a chasm of awkwardness, deeper and more treacherous than any battlefield.

Theron moved first. He released Elias's hand as if it had suddenly burned him. The sudden absence of his warmth felt shockingly cold. He pushed himself up from the chair with a swift, jerky motion, the wooden legs scraping harshly on the stone floor, shattering the fragile silence. He stood to his full height, looming over the bed, his back ramrod straight, the vulnerable sleeper instantly replaced by the imposing Commander. He raked a hand through his tousled hair, a gesture more of agitation than grooming.

He didn't look at Elias. His gaze fixed on a point somewhere over Elias's head, towards the window where the dawn light was strengthening. His jaw was clenched, the muscles working. When he spoke, his voice was rough, gravelly with sleep and something else – a forced, unnatural stiffness. The words were clipped, devoid of inflection, falling into the awkward space between them like stones.

"You're awake." A statement of the obvious, devoid of warmth. "Good."

He paused, the silence stretching again, taut and uncomfortable. Elias could only stare, his face still burning, his freed hand tingling with the phantom memory of Theron's grip, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and that persistent, unwelcome heat.

Theron finally shifted his weight, his boots scraping on the stone. His gaze flickered down to Elias for a fleeting, searing instant – taking in the lingering pallor, the wide blue eyes, the blush staining his cheeks – then snapped away again, fixed back on the impersonal distance. His voice, when it came again, was even rougher, almost harsh.

"See that you rest." It was an order, delivered with Commander Blackwood's customary authority, but it sounded brittle, a shield against the vulnerability of the night. "Brother Anselm will attend you."

Without another word, without waiting for a response, Theron turned sharply on his heel. He strode towards the door, his movements stiff, lacking their usual predatory grace. He wrenched the heavy oak door open, the sound jarringly loud in the quiet room, and stepped through into the antechamber. He pulled the door shut behind him with a decisive thud that echoed in Elias's chest like the slamming of a vault.

Silence rushed back in, thick and heavy, broken only by Elias's own frantic heartbeat pounding like a drum in his ears. He was alone. The warmth that had sustained him was gone, replaced by the cool morning air and the lingering, overwhelming sense of awkward exposure. He looked down at his hand, the one Theron had held all night. It felt strangely empty, yet still tingled with the memory of that powerful, comforting grip. His cheeks burned anew. The Commander's brusque departure, the utter lack of acknowledgment of the intimacy they had shared, the sheer, breathtaking awkwardness of the moment… it left him breathless and profoundly unsettled.

He heard muffled voices in the antechamber – Theron's low, curt tone, then Brother Anselm's concerned murmur. A moment later, the outer door opened and closed with a softer click. Theron was gone.

Elias sank back against the pillows, pulling the blanket up almost to his chin, as if it could shield him from the confusing storm of emotions. The room felt colder without Theron's presence, despite the growing dawn light. He closed his eyes, but all he could see was the image of Theron asleep beside him, holding his hand, and the intense, fleeting look in his amber eyes upon waking – a look that had held not anger, but a profound, flustered awareness that mirrored Elias's own. The silent vigil of the night had ended, leaving behind only the echoing thud of a door and the frantic, echoing drumbeat of Elias Vance's heart, pounding a chaotic rhythm against the quiet sanctity of the morning. The comfort of the dragon's warmth had vanished, replaced by the bewildering, heart-thumping chill of dawn's awkward aftermath.