Fate sighed heavily and watched Malachi for a moment more before continuing. The young man was fully enthralled and intrigued by Azrivel's magic, and indeed, his story. "I'll keep the prospect of death, so long as I get to keep myself," he said with a small chuckle. "In fatc, I think life would get terribly boring if I thought I couldn't die, etc, etc. It keeps me guessing, and I like that." He paused to take a sip of his wine, and looked thoughtfully at Azrivel. He could almost feel something on teh horizon, in the future, but hwe couldn't quite put his finger on it, and instead, decided to concentrate on the heere and nwo. He asked to see the top, and turned it over and over in his long, bony fingers as Azrivel continued to fill him in. Malachi had his share of stories, but he was rather glad to be hearing someone else's for a change.
When Stella questioned him, he turned to answer, but stopped as he noticed her face. Concern sprang into his youthful features and he stood up, offering her his own seat. "Are you alright?" he asked, his brows furrowing. "You look like you have a fever or something, Here, have a seat." Before she could utter a protest, he had gently pushed her into his seat and was scrounging up a glass of ice water for her. A single, sharp pain twanged in his chest and when he returned with the water, he asked simply, "What's wrong with your chest?" folding his arms across his slim form.
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Fate turned her gaze back to her wine-glass and sat for a moment before a heavy sigh escaped her. In that moment, she appeared to Exanderous as an old, and very tired woman. The life seemed to seep out of her like the air out of a balloon. "I can't ask him to help me, because it involves him," she finally said. "For the first time in my life, I am considering rebellion. I looked into the future and I saw Malachi's death, Exanderous." It was surprising to hear her speak the Guardian's actual name, given her habit of merely calling him by his title. "It was a torturous, gruesome thing to watch, and... I'm not sure I can do that to him. I don't know what to do."
As she spoke, the woman reached into a small bag draped across the back of her seat and pulled out a small silver case. Inside stood a line of white sticks, like sardines packed in a lavish can. Without hesitation, she pulled one out and lit it. The fact alone that she was smoking gave away her stress level- the woman had all-but quit a few years ago. She inhaled before continuing. "I have a handful of friends in this world- people who would and will stand by me, who I can trust... To lose one... I..." Again she trailed off and he could see the uncertainty playing across her fair features. Impatiently, she brushed a strand of black hair out of her face, taking another sip and another puff of the cigarette- an aromatic, clove scented one. "If I don't do it, who knows how history could change? But if I do... I couldn't live with myself, knowing..." For a moment, she choked, and turned her gaze back to her wine. Either way we look at this, there's no good solution. I don't know what to do..."
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