[ Salem's stubborn expression gives way to one of concern. Ozma is silent, and Salem is once again concerned that she's made a misstep, broken a rule she didn't know existed. She's probably asking too much of him. Perhaps she read too much into the fact that he allowed her to doze off in his arms; perhaps that is common among people in the outside world.
Salem doesn't mean much by her offer -- at least, she doesn't think she does. She's just worried Ozma will be cold. She liked sleeping close to him. He is not like her father, and Salem has always wanted to be able to trust someone. If not Ozma, then who? ]
If -- if it would make you more comfortable. We can spread the blanket out sideways if you prefer, to give you more space.
[ He gives a startled little breath of a laugh, at that. Spread the blanket out, if you prefer. ]
I was more concerned with your comfort.
[ He barely catches the my lady that he would attach to the end of that. She does not wish to be a lady; she doesn't care for the title or the lands. She shows no bashfulness nor anticipation to share her bed with a soldier. He is beginning to think— does she not understand? Is she unaware of the sorts of things a soldier might do with a beautiful maiden in his bed?
The way she'd curled up sweet and warm against him... surely she has an interest. He does not think it is only gratitude, or perhaps only hopes that it isn't. Ozma does not want her hand in marriage nor a night in her bed as payment for his services. He does not want her as a reward. Has he not been clear on that count?
This is not like any sort of courting nor dalliance he knows. She is not like anything he knows.
Well, the damage to reputation is certainly done. If she will look back on this someday and be horrified at the impropriety, so be it. Ozma regards himself as a good man, but perhaps not so good as to insist on sleeping in the grass. It is, after all, her night of freedom. ]
If that is your wish.
[ She can have anything she likes of him, even if that is as simple as a place in his arms. ]
[ When Ozma laughs a little, Salem can't help but smile, too. They're both a little ridiculous, aren't they? So concerned with each other's comfort. They'll never actually get in the bed, at this rate.
At the mention of wish, Salem feels her breath catch in her throat. Her father would ask that, sometimes, expecting her wishes to be jewels and fine gowns, dolls or musical instruments. She could never say freedom, and in many ways, her father did not really care about what she truly wanted. Her last wish, in the end, was for pens and paper.
With Ozma, however, the notion of wish rings differently -- at least, she thinks it does. At first, she just nods, not trusting herself to speak. But Ozma seems very concerned, and will likely want a spoken answer, and she manages a soft: ]
It is. It was nice to -- to have you close.
[ The words feel foreign and clunky on Salem's tongue. She is not practiced in asking for closeness this bluntly, as if the sentence itself is difficult to construct.
Salem doesn't want to be alone, now that she knows what the opposite feels like. The fact that she's voiced this much at all here makes Salem a little nervous, but it's also a tremendous sign of trust. Her father always told her that the tower was meant to keep her safe, but in many ways, Salem feels safer out here, in the open countryside with this kind man, than she ever did in her cell. ]
[ It was nice to have you close, murmured like an admitted secret. He smiles warm and slow at that. ]
Then I wouldn't think to refuse. [ And with that, his arm is close around her again, steady against her back, as he guides them to bed. He sinks down onto the blanket, drawing her beside him, then releases her so that he may unlace his boots. When he sets them aside, he looks to her, still in her delicate gown. ]
I'm sorry we did not think to bring you a change of sleeping clothes. We'll have to buy something in the village tomorrow.
[ This is said in a rather leading tone. There is his change of clothing, bundled right here at the head of the bed, and certainly they are hers if she wants them. But he is largely waiting to see if she intends to sleep in her gown or in very little at all. ]
[ This time, Salem leans into the touch without any shyness. She’s not afraid Ozma doesn’t mean it, not afraid that his touch is obligatory or reluctantly given. It’s a nice weight off her shoulders, to not have that worry. She keeps pressing her shoulder against his even after they sit, sliding off her slippers as Ozma unlaces his boots.
Her small, content smile is back. She’s awfully tired from the day, but she’s also so, so happy.
Ozma does make a good point about sleeping clothes, though. Salem looks down at her now-dirty dress. It’s another thing her father gave her; she has no real love for it. She just shrugs — it’s not Ozma’s fault this is all the clothes she’s brought. ]
It’s all right. You had an awful lot to deal with.
[ A whole army. Her father. She knows how angry and violent that man could be.
With their shoulders pressed evenly together, however, Salem finally notices that their shoulders do line up awfully well. They’re nearly of the same height. Which means — ]
If you have a spare change, I would be grateful, but do not worry if you don’t. My gown is comfortable enough, and you have already given me so much.
[ Right. Not sleeping in their underthings, then. This is certainly for the best, because weariness aches all through him and weighs his limbs down; he is tired, after the battle and the hike both to and from the castle, after leaning so heavily upon his magic. He would genuinely like to sleep, and it's now apparent that sleep is all she wants of him tonight. Her expression is entirely open and earnest as she asks him for a change of clothes.
It would, he rather suspects, be more difficult to fall asleep with her tucked undressed against him. And he'll not strip to his trousers while she stays earnestly clothed. So for all that he doesn't relish crawling into bed in the tunic he's spent the day sweating in... well, he was prepared for less comfort. ]
Of course. [ He leans across her a moment to retrieve his spare tunic and trousers, and offers them out. He'd not thought he would be spending the night on the road instead of back at the inn, but had brought them out of habit and uncertainty how he might come away from the fight, like the bedroll. He's now grateful they have at least that much. ] These are clean, and yours tonight. You can change here, if you like. I'll turn my back.
[ It is meant both as reassurance and, again, an attempt to sense where her boundaries lie. She wants to sleep in his clothes, and in his arms, but seems to... mean nothing by it? Or else she is astonishingly straight-faced and unbashful. He will simply take his cues from her, and be glad of her warmth in the night. ]
[ Salem accepts the clothes, assuming that Ozma has another clean set for himself — why would he offer her these, otherwise? Once Ozma’s back is turned, she puts on his pants, then slips off her gown and puts on his tunic. The pants are a little baggy on her — Ozma is broader than she is — so Salem takes the band from her gown’s waist and uses it to secure Ozma’s trousers. She by no means looks like a legendary warrior, but she is comfortable. The teal in the tunic picks up the blue in her eyes. ]
You can turn around now. I’ve just got to take off my jewelry.
[ She starts with the bracelets, then her earrings. Finally, she lets down her hair. The portion of it that’s been kept up in a bun is wavy, and it falls messily to her shoulders. She tucks some behind her ears, brushing it away from her face.
Salem does not look especially like a lady, right now. She does not feel like a lady. These strange, new clothes have a kind of freedom to them — her father would never dress her this way.
Salem doesn’t dwell on all that much, though. She’s awfully tired. She lets out a long yawn and stretches her arms over her head, before sleepily looking back to Ozma. ]
[ He waits, eyes shut so that he may drift a moment. The thrill of success and of closeness that has sustained him thus far is well and truly dropping off, now. The heavy ache is pulling him steadily down. He is increasingly glad she wants nothing more complex of him than to sleep. She had felt so good against him, sweet and bonelessly relaxed.
He tries to pay no mind to the rustle of clothing. The clothes are clean, and quite good quality, much like the tunic he wears now; they'll serve her well enough. Perhaps she'll wish to change back in the morning, so that she's not arriving in town in his oversized clothing. He will be fine as he is for a while yet; he has many more changes of clothes among his things at the inn, supposing the inkeep hasn't already declared him dead and begun to sell off his things. They'll have a chance to properly bathe, there, too.
Ozma turns back around, and--
Oh.
She looks very pretty in his clothing.
The neckline of the tunic falls low on her, and reveals a stretch of slim shoulder and collarbone. She's tied the trousers with the fine fabric of her gown, which only makes more apparent that she's in his things, baggy and masculine. With her hair down, it frames her face and goes beautifully mussed and wavy. The sleepy grin she cracks at him makes something plunge and swoop dizzyingly in his chest.
He will get to hold her like this. No, it's actually no mercy she is in his clothing instead of her underthings; he is entirely doomed to embarrassment regardless.
There is a long pause as Ozma recovers some degree of coherence. ]
Yes. I... will be fine as I am.
[ Still in the day's clothes, and looking a little stunned at the sight before him. But he shifts obligingly out of the way to hold the blanket aside for her. ]
[ Salem doesn’t really know how to parse Ozma’s stunned expression — it does not occur to her that he finds her at all attractive. Perhaps it is a strange sight, to see a woman in a man’s clothes. Salem doesn’t know the custom, and right now, she doesn’t care. My Salem rings in the back of her mind, and even though she knows he likely didn’t mean anything by it, Salem would still like to call Ozma something nice. She’ll think about it, as she drifts off to sleep.
Ozma finally says that he’ll be fine as he is. Salem is too tired to argue that he also needs a change of clothes, so she’ll take him at his word. She slides under the blanket and pulls it over her.
Salem turns over to her side so that she’s facing Ozma. Now that the fire has gone out, it’s fairly dark, but she can still make out Ozma’s features by the light of the moon and stars. She does so now, cataloguing the shape of his eyes, the point of his nose, the curve of his lips. She wants to very carefully commit this to memory. This is what a person looks like, close up. This is what it is like to sleep next to someone.
This is what it is like to be free. ]
Thank you.
[ Salem whispers those words, still as heavy with meaning as they were when she spoke them at dinner. They are two little words, Salem thinks, that cannot possibly communicate what Salem feels. None of the stories she’s read had words for what she feels. So she takes Ozma’s hand and gives it a squeeze, hoping that such an action says to him that she is happy. That what he did, today, means so much.
Once she lets go, she rolls onto her other side and scoots a little closer to Ozma, so that he might hold her again. She hopes that he does.
After a few minutes, Salem’s daytime breathing will soften into the gentle sounds of sleep. ]
[ He settles in beside her. The night air is cold but it is warmer in here, already, with his legs brushing hers. Ozma has shared his bed before, but never quite like this. Never out in the dark beneath the stars, with no one else for miles, and this little sliver of space between them in which they breathe together and look at each other.
She smiles, and he can just make it out in the darkness. When she takes his hand, he laces his fingers with her. Her palm is soft and smooth against his own. She squeezes tight, and a moment, later, he squeezes back.
Salem turns over, and for a moment he wonders if she will stay there, an arm's length away from him. But then she shuffles back, near enough to tuck herself against his chest. It is all the invitation he needs: he shifts gladly forward to meet her. Ozma drops an arm around her waist and holds her like that, tucked warm up against him, his face by her hair.
He murmurs it to her, low and glad. ]
Good night.
[ Her body is a stripe of warmth all against his front, and it soothes away the heavy ache of the day. It is easier than he'd thought, to sink into that. To close his eyes and hold her until, before he knows it, he is asleep. ]
[ Salem sleeps well, and deeply, through her first night under the stars. In some ways, that's surprising -- she's not used to sleeping on the ground. Even with the grass, it's much harder than her bed in the tower, and Ozma's pack isn't exactly the softest of pillows. But in other ways, it's not surprising at all. Ozma keeps her warm, and the feeling of his body pressed against hers makes her feel safe, cared for.
The light of dawn wakes her. Ozma's arm is wrapped around her waist; he is still here. He has not left. She is not alone. Salem blinks groggily, and tilts her face up towards the morning light. Above her, the huge sky is filled with warm oranges and pinks. The sun is a bright, glowing thing rising over the hills, just beneath the clouds. Her storybooks always had a word for this: radiant. Now, Salem thinks she knows what that means.
She sits up eagerly, likely jostling Ozma awake. She grabs Ozma's shoulder, giving it a gentle shake. He's probably seen this before. Salem doesn't care. The sunrise is so much more beautiful here, outside of the tower. She's never seen the whole thing before, and she wants Ozma to be with her, when she experiences this for the first time. She doesn't want to do it alone. ]
Oh, Ozma -- Ozma, look!
[ She's wide-eyed and eager again, her expression awfully animated for this early in the morning. Salem is so excited to begin this new day, her first full day outside. ]
[ He jolts awake at the first touch, and bolts upright. The arm that had been draped loose around her waist becomes a protective lean across her body, ready to shield her from whatever is happening—
—but there is nothing but the empty fields around them, gone watery blue with the dawn. Ozma blinks muzzily at the world around them, realizes a bit of her hair is still stuck to his face, and sits up to scrub the back of a hand across his eyes. ]
Salem? What's— what is it?
[ When he is shaken awake beside a campfire, it is not usually for a good reason. But then he properly registers the way she's beaming, bright and grinning in the first golden touches of dawn, and the tension melts out of his shoulders. He sits up properly, more slowly now, and turns to look with her. ]
It's... [ Oh. Oh, he realizes: she is not used to this. It is like the stars, to her. She has never seen whole sections of the sky; she has probably never seen the way the mountains change color like this, the way the clouds light up gold. Ozma settles in beside her, still blinking sleep away to watch. ] It's a beautiful sunrise.
[ But he's more interested in the way her face lights up, watching it. ]
[ Salem doesn’t say much — she’s instead too preoccupied with this sunrise, with taking it all in. She doesn’t think she could ever get used to this.
After they watch the sunrise, Salem and Ozma eat their breakfast and pack up camp. Salem chooses to stay in Ozma’s clothes — they’re easier to walk in, and have no trace of her father, of her old life. She lets her hair hang loose and wild, and as they make their way towards the village, it’s clear Salem is more relaxed than she was the day before. She asks Ozma more questions, wanting to know the names of trees, of birds. She stops to marvel at a ring of mushrooms and to blow the seeds off a dandelion.
During their walk, Salem asks Ozma to describe the village to her, but once they arrive, she realizes that, like the sky, a village full of people is terribly hard to describe. As they arrive, Salem is struck by how loud it is. She has never heard multiple voices overlapping, and there are so many voices here — merchants and children and farmers passing through, and so many types of people Salem can’t name. It is a small village, but to Salem, it is incredibly busy. People and animals are moving every which way; she cannot discern the logic of it.
Salem stops walking abruptly, just staring at the scene, unsure of where to go, how to conduct herself in such a place. It is all incredibly strange, and very, very overwhelming.
Without thinking, Salem reaches out for something familiar, something she knows is safe. She reaches out and grabs Ozma’s hand. ]
Where do we go?
[ Salem’s voice is softer, less bright, more uncertain. She’s nervous. Salem can’t even begin to think of how to approach such a place. ]
[ He didn't expect her to wear his clothes all through the day, nor to wear them into town. They are clearly his, trimmed in the same rich royal teal and gold. He is, more than once, a bit distracted by the way his tunic slips just a little further down her shoulder.
It is a slow hike, just as the one away from the castle had been, but this time the atmosphere is altogether different. He is sore beneath the armor, but not heavy with the same exhaustion. The armor is likely unnecessary, at this stage; he does not think anyone will give them trouble on the road or entering town. It is not the sort of place that has crime worth worrying about. But there may yet be other warriors passing through with intent to storm the tower, more intent upon Salem's hand and her father's wealth than eager to congratulate them on their safe escape. Best not to be off-guard, just in case.
But nothing troubles them on the walk, even as the road turns wider and more hard-packed, rutted with the use of beasts and wagons. The buildings around them are humble and the people largely go about their rural business, though many stop to look at Ozma and Salem as they pass. They do not exactly blend in, here. Ozma's clothing is far brighter and more fine than what is typically worn by farmers and traders, and his armor shines.
He looks at her, surprised, when she takes his hand. For a moment Ozma thinks it is a sign of trouble, thinks she's seen something before he has— but then he parses that the hesitation on her face is not sharp enough to be fear, just a tight uncertainty. Ozma slows in the street, and squeezes her hand in return. ]
There are rooms waiting for us at the inn. It's not much further. [ And, encouragingly: ] We can have a proper breakfast there. And a bath, if you like. Then we might go out to find you some new clothing.
[ Salem nods, still squeezing Ozma’s hand. Inn, breakfast, bath. It’s a plan. Inn, breakfast, bath. She focuses on that as they continue on down the street, focuses on the plan and on the feeling of Ozma’s hand in hers. It acts as a filter, of sorts, to help her take in what she needs to from the scene, and ignore the rest. She focuses on the street, on making sure she doesn’t run into anything or anyone, but tries to let the noise fade out into a distant, albeit loud, hum. It works to some extent, and Salem seems a little less tense. But she’s still pretty quiet. She does speak once, to try to explain: ]
I’ve never — there are so many people. It’s — [ here, Salem manages a self-deprecating laugh, as if to say silly Salem, overwhelmed by a small village. ] — much louder here, than what I’m used to.
[ Salem gets a little bit of her wide-eyed wonder back, once they make it to the inn. The walk through the village has prepared her a little bit, for what it will be like — she’s more used to the overlapping voices, to people crowded together and staring. She wonders what these people will be like. She wonders if she’ll be able to talk to them.
Salem hangs a little bit back behind Ozma, still holding his hand. He knows this place and its customs; she’ll let him enter first. Salem simply resolves to follow his lead, and do as Ozma does. ]
[ There are so many people. For a moment he's bemused, and looks back out the scattering of farmers and merchants going about their business. This is a tiny village. It has only the one inn. It has very few cobblestone streets; most are packed dirt roads, winding gently to cottages backed by fields.
But if she has always been a prisoner, if birds and trees are still astonishing to her... yes, he understands. There must be a lot to look at. ]
Here we are. [ He gives her hand an encouraging squeeze, and turns to smile at her as they stand below the weathered wooden sign. ] I'm sure people will be excited to meet you. They've all heard your story.
[ This does not occur to him as something which might be intimidating; he says it like encouragement. ]
Shall we?
[ And then he is leading her inside.
It is, by Ozma's standards, very humble. A little tavern, warm and worn, with a handful of patrons chatting at the bar or eating breakfast at tables. Eggs, toast, beer. The room smells strongly of cooking breakfast and old, spilled alcohol. There are stairs up to the rooms above, and behind the bar, the inkeeper: a stout, greying man who turns to blink at them in flat shock.
Throughout the tavern, conversations abruptly stop. The scattered traders and travelers have all turned to stare at Ozma, in his gold-trimmed armor, and the maiden in his oversized clothes who clings to his hand. The innkeep sets down the glass in his hand. ]
By the Brothers, you came back. [ The man sounds openly impressed and more than a little incredulous. He shifts closer, to peer around Ozma to Salem. ] This is her, then? [ And then, hurriedly, realizing himself: ] My lord?
[ It's with this that the other patrons erupt into questions and crosstalk. ] The lord's dead? [ and ] Hope he destroyed the fuckin bastard— [ and ] That's the girl in the tower? [ and ] That's Ozma?
[ The gentle bustle of the village street has nothing on this. Already there are people rising to greet them, or to get a closer look, all attention on the pair of them. Ozma weathers it with good-natured calm, as though he's done this much before. He has. ]
[ To Salem, the tavern is more different from her tower than any other building could possibly be. It is so full of people, of the evidence of people coming together to eat, to talk, to be. She cannot name the smells of this place, and it is difficult for her to follow the overlapping conversations, and while it’s all still overwhelming, the novelty of it is its own kind of comfort. She is not in her tower. These people are not her father. It seems some of them rather disliked her father. Salem knows that feeling well.
Still, she’s not sure what she’s supposed to do, here. She looks up at Ozma, who seems rather unbothered by the whole thing, or at least is pretending to be. She tries to imitate that good-natured smile, even as she grips his hand tightly and presses her own shoulder against his, for a little more security.
She should probably say something. Would it be rude to be silent? Would it make her look afraid? What does she even say?
Salem waves a little. She’s seen illustrations in storybooks of people greeting each other like this. It seems sensible. One villager asked if she’s the girl in the tower, so Salem will address him. ]
I’m Salem.
[ The tavern’s patrons are rising now, some of them standing awfully close, staring at the two of them. Salem doesn’t know what to make of it, doesn’t know if this is normal. She stares back — she can’t help herself. Salem is among people, for the first time, and the most she can do is take it all in.
She’s relieved that some of them seem very intent on talking to Ozma. A few wink at him — what does that mean? She trusts Ozma to be able to respond better than she can. ]
[ Ozma is busy fielding what conversations he can. ]
I am not a lord. [ Said loudly and good-naturedly to the innkeeper, and to the small crowd. ] I came only to help Salem. Soon I will depart again, and she will go where she likes. I'm afraid someone else will have to sort out the matter of inheritance.
[ This is where the winking comes in. Everyone is very much aware of the girl dressed in his clothing, hair rumpled from a night of sleeping on the ground, clinging to his arm. A few of their audience break into knowing looks, or nudge each other to mutter their pitying amusement. Their hope he killed the bastard friend is the one to be overt about it: ]
Better find her a husband quick.
[ Ozma's jaw tightens, eyes narrowed in irritation. Loudly: ]
Again, I claim no reward. We were delayed on the road. [ This incites a fresh wave of questions and gossip. Ozma's tone goes ever more pointed: ] We would be glad to retire to our rooms with a hot breakfast. And a hot bath each.
[ The innkeeper, at least, can return to business. He sends someone to prepare the water, then goes to fetch their keys. When he returns to lead them up the stairs to their rooms, Ozma squeezes Salem's hand and draws her along beside him.
The rooms here are simple— a bed, a table, a little bathroom— and their doors just beside each other. Ozma looks to her as they stand before each threshold. ]
We can fetch another change of clothes from my room. [ It's a gentle suggestion, unsure whether she'll be eager for the opportunity to be alone again after so much time together. ] You're welcome to eat with me, if you'd like.
[ Salem continues to remain quiet for most of the exchange, doing her best to follow all the threads of conversation. She wasn't sure what to make of the winking, but she doesn't like the knowing looks, and likes their loud friend, the one who called her father a bastard, even less. Salem's gaze becomes less wide-eyed, more focused on him and him alone. It takes her a moment to find the right words, but as they leave to follow the innkeeper up to their room, Salem turns back to call out, tone stern: ]
I think I'll be finding my own husband. If I want one.
[ Salem is a free woman now. She will determine what happens in her own life; she will never be a possession, never again. Once she's said her piece, she turns back around and follows up the stairs, head held high.
Once they make it up the stairs, Salem visibly relaxes. Her shoulders sag a little, and her grip on Ozma's hand becomes much less tense. Salem looks at their two rooms, thinking about something Ozma said back among the other men: Soon I will depart again, and she will go where she likes. Salem, of course, very much wants to go where she likes. That's freedom. But Ozma's words make her gut twist in a way that is...not unlike the way she used to feel when her nanny would come and go. Salem doesn't want Ozma to leave, but she doesn't know if it's because she's afraid of being alone again, or if it's because she likes Ozma.
At any rate, she certainly likes Ozma much better than the men downstairs. And she very, very much wants to eat with him. Salem nods, and a smile returns to her face. ]
Yes, I'd -- very much like to eat with you. If you'd like that.
[ She wants to make sure he actually wants her there. Perhaps Ozma welcomed her company last night out of obligation, or because there was nobody else around. Salem hopes that's not the case. ]
[ This is the first he's seen her go cool and stern, and Ozma blinks at her, startled. And then... a little relieved. A part of him is worried for her, and how she may soon be adrift in an unfamiliar world. He has seen her fight, and knows that she is both brave and powerful— but that had been life-or-death, a clear-cut battle, a situation she had planned for. It is something else to see her simply in control.
She settles again once they are alone. It makes something warm and sweet pool in his gut, the way she smiles when it is just the two of them again. ]
I would.
[ He smiles back, and draws her along with him into his room. ]
We'll have the bath first, I would think. While the water is hot. They will bring food up soon enough.
[ He lets go of her hand to go to the pack at the foot of the bed. He is glad to find all his things still here— he'd left behind anything that did not seem worth hiking with, and hadn't really known whether he would find it intact or already sold off. Ozma draws out clothing to set on the bed for her, looking for whatever is light and fine. ]
Please, have a look through this and see if there is anything else you'd like to borrow.
Oh, a bath sounds wonderful. I don't think I've ever been this dirty before.
[ In some ways, that's not quite true -- Salem knows she's never been this dirty before. She'd never had a full day of physical activity before yesterday, had never experienced dirt before. She's already imagining what this bath will feel like.
Salem nods appreciatively and has a look through his clothes, searching for whatever looks the smallest. She finds a pair of tighter, cropped pants and a lighter blue tunic that doesn't seem too baggy. Although frankly, Salem would wear anything. Salem folds up her selection and holds it close to her chest, as if it's something precious. To Salem, it is -- she's never borrowed anything before, save for the clothes that she's already wearing, so she wants to make sure she's taking proper care of Ozma's things. ]
Thank you. [ And since it's obvious the bath isn't in the room: ] Is there a room for us to bathe?
[ Are all the baths together, or separate? Salem doesn't know the custom, and doesn't want to presume either way. If it's customary for people to all bathe together, then she doesn't want to offend Ozma by bathing alone. If it isn't, then she doesn't want to impose on him, or make him uncomfortable. ]
[ I don't think I've ever been this dirty before is kind of charming, given that the sweat and dirt of two days' hiking is a common and comfortable baseline for Ozma. She still looks neat and lovely to him, by his standards, even dressed in his too-big clothes. ]
There is, yes. If you'll follow me... [ He retrieves his own change of clothes, decides he will unbuckle his armor once he's at the bath rather than making her wait for him here, and beckons her along with him back into the hallway. Ozma locks the door behind them and leads them down a new set of steps to—
Oh.
He'd forgotten just how small an inn this is. There is only the one bathing room, with only the one tub. It is a large and respectable tub, treated wood ringed by stone steps. A fireplace burns low and cozy along one wall, fed by magic, and set out before it is an assortment of towels and lotions and little soaps. Bunches of fragrant herbs and offering-flowers are tucked against the walls.
No matter. He can leave her to it and go deal with his armor. Someone has already prepared the water: it steams gently and smells of lavender. Perhaps it was noted that a lady and a thought-to-be-lord would be using this space; he very much doubts everyone gets the same treatment. There certainly weren't this many pretty little toiletries when he first made use of the room two nights ago. ]
[ Salem does not see anything wrong with the bathing room. After all, the tub is a respectable size, and the water looks warm and pleasant. It gives off a nice smell that Salem cannot name, but between that, the fire, and the soft towels, the effect is awfully cozy. Salem takes a deep breath, smelling what she presumes are the flowers. They’re lovely — it’s like being outside and inside, at the same time.
Ozma, however, doesn’t seem as happy with the setup. Salem turns to him, confused. Is this like the bed all over again? ]
But then the water will be cold when it’s your turn. [ That won’t do. If Ozma is sore from all that armor, then hot water will probably do him good. He needs it more than she does. ] You can go first. Or we can go together.
[ Salem doesn’t see anything inherently wrong with her second suggestion. Her nanny helped her bathe, when she was younger, and Salem trusts Ozma more than she trusted her nanny, in some ways. Her nanny was her father’s employee, bound to him. Ozma has no such allegiance, and he has been nothing but kind and comforting since leaving the castle. ]
[ We can go together. And once again, Ozma finds himself floundering. The confusion on her face is clear: she means nothing by it, he is certain. It is easier to be confident of that now that he does not have her tucked against his chest and smiling sweetly up at him. This time, he does not have to look long for her deeper meaning: he is really rather sure there is none to find.
Still. The image comes to him unbidden. He has seen the way her dress clung to her body, has seen the stretch of bared shoulder and collarbone when his too-big tunic was hanging off her. He can... imagine.
Which he should not do. She is offering him nothing but— but what? The way she'd tucked her head against his shoulder, face turned in against his neck... Had she meant to fall dead asleep against him, the moment they got into bed? Had she thought at all of other things they might do, the way he had? Now he's gone in circles again.
Ozma looks helplessly lost. ]
I- I do not think... [ His voice catches on it, embarrassed, hesitating. He clears his throat and tries to steady it away. She is really distractingly gorgeous, standing there by the tub and looking back at him, entirely prepared to undress. He looks away to inspect their many soaps and scents, because he is absolutely making a fool of himself with the look on his face. ]
That is, I would be glad to join you. [ My lady, he barely does not say. It was easier when he could lean upon formality. ] But I... do not think it would be proper.
[ Unless she does not care! If she does not care, he is really very content not to care. If she wanted him she could have him, without marriage having a thing to do with it. Not everyone is so concerned with virtue as the nobility.
It is really very disorienting to dismiss winks in a tavern and then find himself alone with her in a bathing room, now. He feels distinctly like a hypocrite. ]
[ Salem listens to Ozma clear his throat and trip over his words. He tells her that her suggestion is not proper, and Salem believes him. It must be very improper indeed, if Ozma reacts like this. Ozma is looking at the small soaps, now, and Salem wonders if she’s upset him, if there’s a reason why he won’t meet her gaze.
When Salem speaks again, her voice is gentle, doing her best not to presume anything or unduly pressure Ozma. She is just trying to understand. ]
I’m afraid I don’t know much about what is and isn’t proper. [ Etiquette requires other people, and Salem has been alone for most of her life. She never had the opportunity to learn. ] But I know that you are a good man and that I — I like you. So I think —
[ Salem pauses, to collect her thoughts. When she speaks, she speaks slowly, choosing every word with care. This type of conversation is new territory, and Salem does not want to make any mistakes. ]
— I think I would like it if you were comfortable. So if you want a hot bath, please join me, or go first — whatever you please. But if you would rather not, I understand.
[ Salem doesn’t really understand. But she figures giving Ozma an opportunity to leave is the right — the proper — thing to do. ]
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Salem doesn't mean much by her offer -- at least, she doesn't think she does. She's just worried Ozma will be cold. She liked sleeping close to him. He is not like her father, and Salem has always wanted to be able to trust someone. If not Ozma, then who? ]
If -- if it would make you more comfortable. We can spread the blanket out sideways if you prefer, to give you more space.
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I was more concerned with your comfort.
[ He barely catches the my lady that he would attach to the end of that. She does not wish to be a lady; she doesn't care for the title or the lands. She shows no bashfulness nor anticipation to share her bed with a soldier. He is beginning to think— does she not understand? Is she unaware of the sorts of things a soldier might do with a beautiful maiden in his bed?
The way she'd curled up sweet and warm against him... surely she has an interest. He does not think it is only gratitude, or perhaps only hopes that it isn't. Ozma does not want her hand in marriage nor a night in her bed as payment for his services. He does not want her as a reward. Has he not been clear on that count?
This is not like any sort of courting nor dalliance he knows. She is not like anything he knows.
Well, the damage to reputation is certainly done. If she will look back on this someday and be horrified at the impropriety, so be it. Ozma regards himself as a good man, but perhaps not so good as to insist on sleeping in the grass. It is, after all, her night of freedom. ]
If that is your wish.
[ She can have anything she likes of him, even if that is as simple as a place in his arms. ]
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At the mention of wish, Salem feels her breath catch in her throat. Her father would ask that, sometimes, expecting her wishes to be jewels and fine gowns, dolls or musical instruments. She could never say freedom, and in many ways, her father did not really care about what she truly wanted. Her last wish, in the end, was for pens and paper.
With Ozma, however, the notion of wish rings differently -- at least, she thinks it does. At first, she just nods, not trusting herself to speak. But Ozma seems very concerned, and will likely want a spoken answer, and she manages a soft: ]
It is. It was nice to -- to have you close.
[ The words feel foreign and clunky on Salem's tongue. She is not practiced in asking for closeness this bluntly, as if the sentence itself is difficult to construct.
Salem doesn't want to be alone, now that she knows what the opposite feels like. The fact that she's voiced this much at all here makes Salem a little nervous, but it's also a tremendous sign of trust. Her father always told her that the tower was meant to keep her safe, but in many ways, Salem feels safer out here, in the open countryside with this kind man, than she ever did in her cell. ]
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Then I wouldn't think to refuse. [ And with that, his arm is close around her again, steady against her back, as he guides them to bed. He sinks down onto the blanket, drawing her beside him, then releases her so that he may unlace his boots. When he sets them aside, he looks to her, still in her delicate gown. ]
I'm sorry we did not think to bring you a change of sleeping clothes. We'll have to buy something in the village tomorrow.
[ This is said in a rather leading tone. There is his change of clothing, bundled right here at the head of the bed, and certainly they are hers if she wants them. But he is largely waiting to see if she intends to sleep in her gown or in very little at all. ]
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Her small, content smile is back. She’s awfully tired from the day, but she’s also so, so happy.
Ozma does make a good point about sleeping clothes, though. Salem looks down at her now-dirty dress. It’s another thing her father gave her; she has no real love for it. She just shrugs — it’s not Ozma’s fault this is all the clothes she’s brought. ]
It’s all right. You had an awful lot to deal with.
[ A whole army. Her father. She knows how angry and violent that man could be.
With their shoulders pressed evenly together, however, Salem finally notices that their shoulders do line up awfully well. They’re nearly of the same height. Which means — ]
If you have a spare change, I would be grateful, but do not worry if you don’t. My gown is comfortable enough, and you have already given me so much.
[ Food. Company. Touch. Safety. Freedom. ]
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It would, he rather suspects, be more difficult to fall asleep with her tucked undressed against him. And he'll not strip to his trousers while she stays earnestly clothed. So for all that he doesn't relish crawling into bed in the tunic he's spent the day sweating in... well, he was prepared for less comfort. ]
Of course. [ He leans across her a moment to retrieve his spare tunic and trousers, and offers them out. He'd not thought he would be spending the night on the road instead of back at the inn, but had brought them out of habit and uncertainty how he might come away from the fight, like the bedroll. He's now grateful they have at least that much. ] These are clean, and yours tonight. You can change here, if you like. I'll turn my back.
[ It is meant both as reassurance and, again, an attempt to sense where her boundaries lie. She wants to sleep in his clothes, and in his arms, but seems to... mean nothing by it? Or else she is astonishingly straight-faced and unbashful. He will simply take his cues from her, and be glad of her warmth in the night. ]
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[ Salem accepts the clothes, assuming that Ozma has another clean set for himself — why would he offer her these, otherwise? Once Ozma’s back is turned, she puts on his pants, then slips off her gown and puts on his tunic. The pants are a little baggy on her — Ozma is broader than she is — so Salem takes the band from her gown’s waist and uses it to secure Ozma’s trousers. She by no means looks like a legendary warrior, but she is comfortable. The teal in the tunic picks up the blue in her eyes. ]
You can turn around now. I’ve just got to take off my jewelry.
[ She starts with the bracelets, then her earrings. Finally, she lets down her hair. The portion of it that’s been kept up in a bun is wavy, and it falls messily to her shoulders. She tucks some behind her ears, brushing it away from her face.
Salem does not look especially like a lady, right now. She does not feel like a lady. These strange, new clothes have a kind of freedom to them — her father would never dress her this way.
Salem doesn’t dwell on all that much, though. She’s awfully tired. She lets out a long yawn and stretches her arms over her head, before sleepily looking back to Ozma. ]
Ready to sleep?
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He tries to pay no mind to the rustle of clothing. The clothes are clean, and quite good quality, much like the tunic he wears now; they'll serve her well enough. Perhaps she'll wish to change back in the morning, so that she's not arriving in town in his oversized clothing. He will be fine as he is for a while yet; he has many more changes of clothes among his things at the inn, supposing the inkeep hasn't already declared him dead and begun to sell off his things. They'll have a chance to properly bathe, there, too.
Ozma turns back around, and--
Oh.
She looks very pretty in his clothing.
The neckline of the tunic falls low on her, and reveals a stretch of slim shoulder and collarbone. She's tied the trousers with the fine fabric of her gown, which only makes more apparent that she's in his things, baggy and masculine. With her hair down, it frames her face and goes beautifully mussed and wavy. The sleepy grin she cracks at him makes something plunge and swoop dizzyingly in his chest.
He will get to hold her like this. No, it's actually no mercy she is in his clothing instead of her underthings; he is entirely doomed to embarrassment regardless.
There is a long pause as Ozma recovers some degree of coherence. ]
Yes. I... will be fine as I am.
[ Still in the day's clothes, and looking a little stunned at the sight before him. But he shifts obligingly out of the way to hold the blanket aside for her. ]
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Ozma finally says that he’ll be fine as he is. Salem is too tired to argue that he also needs a change of clothes, so she’ll take him at his word. She slides under the blanket and pulls it over her.
Salem turns over to her side so that she’s facing Ozma. Now that the fire has gone out, it’s fairly dark, but she can still make out Ozma’s features by the light of the moon and stars. She does so now, cataloguing the shape of his eyes, the point of his nose, the curve of his lips. She wants to very carefully commit this to memory. This is what a person looks like, close up. This is what it is like to sleep next to someone.
This is what it is like to be free. ]
Thank you.
[ Salem whispers those words, still as heavy with meaning as they were when she spoke them at dinner. They are two little words, Salem thinks, that cannot possibly communicate what Salem feels. None of the stories she’s read had words for what she feels. So she takes Ozma’s hand and gives it a squeeze, hoping that such an action says to him that she is happy. That what he did, today, means so much.
Once she lets go, she rolls onto her other side and scoots a little closer to Ozma, so that he might hold her again. She hopes that he does.
After a few minutes, Salem’s daytime breathing will soften into the gentle sounds of sleep. ]
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She smiles, and he can just make it out in the darkness. When she takes his hand, he laces his fingers with her. Her palm is soft and smooth against his own. She squeezes tight, and a moment, later, he squeezes back.
Salem turns over, and for a moment he wonders if she will stay there, an arm's length away from him. But then she shuffles back, near enough to tuck herself against his chest. It is all the invitation he needs: he shifts gladly forward to meet her. Ozma drops an arm around her waist and holds her like that, tucked warm up against him, his face by her hair.
He murmurs it to her, low and glad. ]
Good night.
[ Her body is a stripe of warmth all against his front, and it soothes away the heavy ache of the day. It is easier than he'd thought, to sink into that. To close his eyes and hold her until, before he knows it, he is asleep. ]
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The light of dawn wakes her. Ozma's arm is wrapped around her waist; he is still here. He has not left. She is not alone. Salem blinks groggily, and tilts her face up towards the morning light. Above her, the huge sky is filled with warm oranges and pinks. The sun is a bright, glowing thing rising over the hills, just beneath the clouds. Her storybooks always had a word for this: radiant. Now, Salem thinks she knows what that means.
She sits up eagerly, likely jostling Ozma awake. She grabs Ozma's shoulder, giving it a gentle shake. He's probably seen this before. Salem doesn't care. The sunrise is so much more beautiful here, outside of the tower. She's never seen the whole thing before, and she wants Ozma to be with her, when she experiences this for the first time. She doesn't want to do it alone. ]
Oh, Ozma -- Ozma, look!
[ She's wide-eyed and eager again, her expression awfully animated for this early in the morning. Salem is so excited to begin this new day, her first full day outside. ]
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—but there is nothing but the empty fields around them, gone watery blue with the dawn. Ozma blinks muzzily at the world around them, realizes a bit of her hair is still stuck to his face, and sits up to scrub the back of a hand across his eyes. ]
Salem? What's— what is it?
[ When he is shaken awake beside a campfire, it is not usually for a good reason. But then he properly registers the way she's beaming, bright and grinning in the first golden touches of dawn, and the tension melts out of his shoulders. He sits up properly, more slowly now, and turns to look with her. ]
It's... [ Oh. Oh, he realizes: she is not used to this. It is like the stars, to her. She has never seen whole sections of the sky; she has probably never seen the way the mountains change color like this, the way the clouds light up gold. Ozma settles in beside her, still blinking sleep away to watch. ] It's a beautiful sunrise.
[ But he's more interested in the way her face lights up, watching it. ]
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[ Salem doesn’t say much — she’s instead too preoccupied with this sunrise, with taking it all in. She doesn’t think she could ever get used to this.
After they watch the sunrise, Salem and Ozma eat their breakfast and pack up camp. Salem chooses to stay in Ozma’s clothes — they’re easier to walk in, and have no trace of her father, of her old life. She lets her hair hang loose and wild, and as they make their way towards the village, it’s clear Salem is more relaxed than she was the day before. She asks Ozma more questions, wanting to know the names of trees, of birds. She stops to marvel at a ring of mushrooms and to blow the seeds off a dandelion.
During their walk, Salem asks Ozma to describe the village to her, but once they arrive, she realizes that, like the sky, a village full of people is terribly hard to describe. As they arrive, Salem is struck by how loud it is. She has never heard multiple voices overlapping, and there are so many voices here — merchants and children and farmers passing through, and so many types of people Salem can’t name. It is a small village, but to Salem, it is incredibly busy. People and animals are moving every which way; she cannot discern the logic of it.
Salem stops walking abruptly, just staring at the scene, unsure of where to go, how to conduct herself in such a place. It is all incredibly strange, and very, very overwhelming.
Without thinking, Salem reaches out for something familiar, something she knows is safe. She reaches out and grabs Ozma’s hand. ]
Where do we go?
[ Salem’s voice is softer, less bright, more uncertain. She’s nervous. Salem can’t even begin to think of how to approach such a place. ]
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It is a slow hike, just as the one away from the castle had been, but this time the atmosphere is altogether different. He is sore beneath the armor, but not heavy with the same exhaustion. The armor is likely unnecessary, at this stage; he does not think anyone will give them trouble on the road or entering town. It is not the sort of place that has crime worth worrying about. But there may yet be other warriors passing through with intent to storm the tower, more intent upon Salem's hand and her father's wealth than eager to congratulate them on their safe escape. Best not to be off-guard, just in case.
But nothing troubles them on the walk, even as the road turns wider and more hard-packed, rutted with the use of beasts and wagons. The buildings around them are humble and the people largely go about their rural business, though many stop to look at Ozma and Salem as they pass. They do not exactly blend in, here. Ozma's clothing is far brighter and more fine than what is typically worn by farmers and traders, and his armor shines.
He looks at her, surprised, when she takes his hand. For a moment Ozma thinks it is a sign of trouble, thinks she's seen something before he has— but then he parses that the hesitation on her face is not sharp enough to be fear, just a tight uncertainty. Ozma slows in the street, and squeezes her hand in return. ]
There are rooms waiting for us at the inn. It's not much further. [ And, encouragingly: ] We can have a proper breakfast there. And a bath, if you like. Then we might go out to find you some new clothing.
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I’ve never — there are so many people. It’s — [ here, Salem manages a self-deprecating laugh, as if to say silly Salem, overwhelmed by a small village. ] — much louder here, than what I’m used to.
[ Salem gets a little bit of her wide-eyed wonder back, once they make it to the inn. The walk through the village has prepared her a little bit, for what it will be like — she’s more used to the overlapping voices, to people crowded together and staring. She wonders what these people will be like. She wonders if she’ll be able to talk to them.
Salem hangs a little bit back behind Ozma, still holding his hand. He knows this place and its customs; she’ll let him enter first. Salem simply resolves to follow his lead, and do as Ozma does. ]
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But if she has always been a prisoner, if birds and trees are still astonishing to her... yes, he understands. There must be a lot to look at. ]
Here we are. [ He gives her hand an encouraging squeeze, and turns to smile at her as they stand below the weathered wooden sign. ] I'm sure people will be excited to meet you. They've all heard your story.
[ This does not occur to him as something which might be intimidating; he says it like encouragement. ]
Shall we?
[ And then he is leading her inside.
It is, by Ozma's standards, very humble. A little tavern, warm and worn, with a handful of patrons chatting at the bar or eating breakfast at tables. Eggs, toast, beer. The room smells strongly of cooking breakfast and old, spilled alcohol. There are stairs up to the rooms above, and behind the bar, the inkeeper: a stout, greying man who turns to blink at them in flat shock.
Throughout the tavern, conversations abruptly stop. The scattered traders and travelers have all turned to stare at Ozma, in his gold-trimmed armor, and the maiden in his oversized clothes who clings to his hand. The innkeep sets down the glass in his hand. ]
By the Brothers, you came back. [ The man sounds openly impressed and more than a little incredulous. He shifts closer, to peer around Ozma to Salem. ] This is her, then? [ And then, hurriedly, realizing himself: ] My lord?
[ It's with this that the other patrons erupt into questions and crosstalk. ] The lord's dead? [ and ] Hope he destroyed the fuckin bastard— [ and ] That's the girl in the tower? [ and ] That's Ozma?
[ The gentle bustle of the village street has nothing on this. Already there are people rising to greet them, or to get a closer look, all attention on the pair of them. Ozma weathers it with good-natured calm, as though he's done this much before. He has. ]
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Still, she’s not sure what she’s supposed to do, here. She looks up at Ozma, who seems rather unbothered by the whole thing, or at least is pretending to be. She tries to imitate that good-natured smile, even as she grips his hand tightly and presses her own shoulder against his, for a little more security.
She should probably say something. Would it be rude to be silent? Would it make her look afraid? What does she even say?
Salem waves a little. She’s seen illustrations in storybooks of people greeting each other like this. It seems sensible. One villager asked if she’s the girl in the tower, so Salem will address him. ]
I’m Salem.
[ The tavern’s patrons are rising now, some of them standing awfully close, staring at the two of them. Salem doesn’t know what to make of it, doesn’t know if this is normal. She stares back — she can’t help herself. Salem is among people, for the first time, and the most she can do is take it all in.
She’s relieved that some of them seem very intent on talking to Ozma. A few wink at him — what does that mean? She trusts Ozma to be able to respond better than she can. ]
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I am not a lord. [ Said loudly and good-naturedly to the innkeeper, and to the small crowd. ] I came only to help Salem. Soon I will depart again, and she will go where she likes. I'm afraid someone else will have to sort out the matter of inheritance.
[ This is where the winking comes in. Everyone is very much aware of the girl dressed in his clothing, hair rumpled from a night of sleeping on the ground, clinging to his arm. A few of their audience break into knowing looks, or nudge each other to mutter their pitying amusement. Their hope he killed the bastard friend is the one to be overt about it: ]
Better find her a husband quick.
[ Ozma's jaw tightens, eyes narrowed in irritation. Loudly: ]
Again, I claim no reward. We were delayed on the road. [ This incites a fresh wave of questions and gossip. Ozma's tone goes ever more pointed: ] We would be glad to retire to our rooms with a hot breakfast. And a hot bath each.
[ The innkeeper, at least, can return to business. He sends someone to prepare the water, then goes to fetch their keys. When he returns to lead them up the stairs to their rooms, Ozma squeezes Salem's hand and draws her along beside him.
The rooms here are simple— a bed, a table, a little bathroom— and their doors just beside each other. Ozma looks to her as they stand before each threshold. ]
We can fetch another change of clothes from my room. [ It's a gentle suggestion, unsure whether she'll be eager for the opportunity to be alone again after so much time together. ] You're welcome to eat with me, if you'd like.
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I think I'll be finding my own husband. If I want one.
[ Salem is a free woman now. She will determine what happens in her own life; she will never be a possession, never again. Once she's said her piece, she turns back around and follows up the stairs, head held high.
Once they make it up the stairs, Salem visibly relaxes. Her shoulders sag a little, and her grip on Ozma's hand becomes much less tense. Salem looks at their two rooms, thinking about something Ozma said back among the other men: Soon I will depart again, and she will go where she likes. Salem, of course, very much wants to go where she likes. That's freedom. But Ozma's words make her gut twist in a way that is...not unlike the way she used to feel when her nanny would come and go. Salem doesn't want Ozma to leave, but she doesn't know if it's because she's afraid of being alone again, or if it's because she likes Ozma.
At any rate, she certainly likes Ozma much better than the men downstairs. And she very, very much wants to eat with him. Salem nods, and a smile returns to her face. ]
Yes, I'd -- very much like to eat with you. If you'd like that.
[ She wants to make sure he actually wants her there. Perhaps Ozma welcomed her company last night out of obligation, or because there was nobody else around. Salem hopes that's not the case. ]
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She settles again once they are alone. It makes something warm and sweet pool in his gut, the way she smiles when it is just the two of them again. ]
I would.
[ He smiles back, and draws her along with him into his room. ]
We'll have the bath first, I would think. While the water is hot. They will bring food up soon enough.
[ He lets go of her hand to go to the pack at the foot of the bed. He is glad to find all his things still here— he'd left behind anything that did not seem worth hiking with, and hadn't really known whether he would find it intact or already sold off. Ozma draws out clothing to set on the bed for her, looking for whatever is light and fine. ]
Please, have a look through this and see if there is anything else you'd like to borrow.
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[ In some ways, that's not quite true -- Salem knows she's never been this dirty before. She'd never had a full day of physical activity before yesterday, had never experienced dirt before. She's already imagining what this bath will feel like.
Salem nods appreciatively and has a look through his clothes, searching for whatever looks the smallest. She finds a pair of tighter, cropped pants and a lighter blue tunic that doesn't seem too baggy. Although frankly, Salem would wear anything. Salem folds up her selection and holds it close to her chest, as if it's something precious. To Salem, it is -- she's never borrowed anything before, save for the clothes that she's already wearing, so she wants to make sure she's taking proper care of Ozma's things. ]
Thank you. [ And since it's obvious the bath isn't in the room: ] Is there a room for us to bathe?
[ Are all the baths together, or separate? Salem doesn't know the custom, and doesn't want to presume either way. If it's customary for people to all bathe together, then she doesn't want to offend Ozma by bathing alone. If it isn't, then she doesn't want to impose on him, or make him uncomfortable. ]
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There is, yes. If you'll follow me... [ He retrieves his own change of clothes, decides he will unbuckle his armor once he's at the bath rather than making her wait for him here, and beckons her along with him back into the hallway. Ozma locks the door behind them and leads them down a new set of steps to—
Oh.
He'd forgotten just how small an inn this is. There is only the one bathing room, with only the one tub. It is a large and respectable tub, treated wood ringed by stone steps. A fireplace burns low and cozy along one wall, fed by magic, and set out before it is an assortment of towels and lotions and little soaps. Bunches of fragrant herbs and offering-flowers are tucked against the walls.
No matter. He can leave her to it and go deal with his armor. Someone has already prepared the water: it steams gently and smells of lavender. Perhaps it was noted that a lady and a thought-to-be-lord would be using this space; he very much doubts everyone gets the same treatment. There certainly weren't this many pretty little toiletries when he first made use of the room two nights ago. ]
You have first claim of the bath, of course.
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Ozma, however, doesn’t seem as happy with the setup. Salem turns to him, confused. Is this like the bed all over again? ]
But then the water will be cold when it’s your turn. [ That won’t do. If Ozma is sore from all that armor, then hot water will probably do him good. He needs it more than she does. ] You can go first. Or we can go together.
[ Salem doesn’t see anything inherently wrong with her second suggestion. Her nanny helped her bathe, when she was younger, and Salem trusts Ozma more than she trusted her nanny, in some ways. Her nanny was her father’s employee, bound to him. Ozma has no such allegiance, and he has been nothing but kind and comforting since leaving the castle. ]
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Still. The image comes to him unbidden. He has seen the way her dress clung to her body, has seen the stretch of bared shoulder and collarbone when his too-big tunic was hanging off her. He can... imagine.
Which he should not do. She is offering him nothing but— but what? The way she'd tucked her head against his shoulder, face turned in against his neck... Had she meant to fall dead asleep against him, the moment they got into bed? Had she thought at all of other things they might do, the way he had? Now he's gone in circles again.
Ozma looks helplessly lost. ]
I- I do not think... [ His voice catches on it, embarrassed, hesitating. He clears his throat and tries to steady it away. She is really distractingly gorgeous, standing there by the tub and looking back at him, entirely prepared to undress. He looks away to inspect their many soaps and scents, because he is absolutely making a fool of himself with the look on his face. ]
That is, I would be glad to join you. [ My lady, he barely does not say. It was easier when he could lean upon formality. ] But I... do not think it would be proper.
[ Unless she does not care! If she does not care, he is really very content not to care. If she wanted him she could have him, without marriage having a thing to do with it. Not everyone is so concerned with virtue as the nobility.
It is really very disorienting to dismiss winks in a tavern and then find himself alone with her in a bathing room, now. He feels distinctly like a hypocrite. ]
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When Salem speaks again, her voice is gentle, doing her best not to presume anything or unduly pressure Ozma. She is just trying to understand. ]
I’m afraid I don’t know much about what is and isn’t proper. [ Etiquette requires other people, and Salem has been alone for most of her life. She never had the opportunity to learn. ] But I know that you are a good man and that I — I like you. So I think —
[ Salem pauses, to collect her thoughts. When she speaks, she speaks slowly, choosing every word with care. This type of conversation is new territory, and Salem does not want to make any mistakes. ]
— I think I would like it if you were comfortable. So if you want a hot bath, please join me, or go first — whatever you please. But if you would rather not, I understand.
[ Salem doesn’t really understand. But she figures giving Ozma an opportunity to leave is the right — the proper — thing to do. ]
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cw nudity and light nsfw
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