[A cloud of roadrunner dust settles across the floor as he flees (no)
It is shyness that has him fleeing, because Luke is brave in a lot of ways, but not this one, not the way that truly matters. (And he'd balk if he heard someone say it, but he's innocent, too, at least compared to the majority of his fellow knights.) It's hard enough for him not to turn tomato red half the time when she's simply existing in the same space, he's pretty sure he would've exploded and died if he'd lingered any longer,,,
So he flees, because he can't see her like that. And he stays gone for a while, longer than strictly necessary, because--
Well. Because she can't see him like this.
The roof of the stable is a blessing in the storm. He isn't in a state to appreciate it as he curls into himself, his throat scraped raw and his chest heaving with the painful, bloody coughs that rip through him--but he will, later, when he doesn't have to make excuses for anything beyond smelling a little too much like horse and hay. Later, he'll be grateful for the pouring rain hiding the sounds of his body tearing itself apart, even if it's unlikely that anyone would care enough to be nosy. Late, late at night, when everyone else is fast asleep and he can sit alone with his thoughts and his brittle, aching body, he'll think of these things and feel quietly relieved that he doesn't have to lie to Rosamund any more than he already does.
For now, though, he can't think beyond the pain, and all the misery and bitterness it dredges up within him. They're old friends, by now.]
1/2
It is shyness that has him fleeing, because Luke is brave in a lot of ways, but not this one, not the way that truly matters. (And he'd balk if he heard someone say it, but he's innocent, too, at least compared to the majority of his fellow knights.) It's hard enough for him not to turn tomato red half the time when she's simply existing in the same space, he's pretty sure he would've exploded and died if he'd lingered any longer,,,
So he flees, because he can't see her like that. And he stays gone for a while, longer than strictly necessary, because--
Well. Because she can't see him like this.
The roof of the stable is a blessing in the storm. He isn't in a state to appreciate it as he curls into himself, his throat scraped raw and his chest heaving with the painful, bloody coughs that rip through him--but he will, later, when he doesn't have to make excuses for anything beyond smelling a little too much like horse and hay. Later, he'll be grateful for the pouring rain hiding the sounds of his body tearing itself apart, even if it's unlikely that anyone would care enough to be nosy. Late, late at night, when everyone else is fast asleep and he can sit alone with his thoughts and his brittle, aching body, he'll think of these things and feel quietly relieved that he doesn't have to lie to Rosamund any more than he already does.
For now, though, he can't think beyond the pain, and all the misery and bitterness it dredges up within him. They're old friends, by now.]