[ 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. ]
[ I don’t know much about what is and isn’t proper. He winces, at that. If she does not understand, surely he should not be putting her in this situation. He has devoted his life to justice, to righteousness, to good. He does not intend to take advantage. It runs counter to everything he is meant to be.
But, oh. You are a good man. He looks up at her, startled and pleased. When she trips over her words, fumbles through I like you, Ozma looks a new sort of helpless. He— he knows it isn't the schoolyard sort of I like you. It is something deeper and clumsier and just as pure. She speaks so carefully, trying to puzzle out the most proper and respectful way to invite him in, and a smile breaks small and warm and soppy across his face. ]
Again, we worry for each other's comfort.
[ He sets down the bundle of clothing in his arms, beside the towels and little soaps. ]
Sharing a bath, or sharing a bed... [ He gives an uncomfortable little breath of a laugh. ] It carries certain implications. Even outside of marriage. [ That's a hint, Salem!! ] I only mean to understand what you would ask of me.
[ He already does, but he would like for her to understand. And he would especially like to be spared the embarrassment of having to be any more overt aloud. ]
[ Oh, good, Ozma is smiling again. Salem figures she must not have made too terrible of a mistake. Then Ozma explains the custom, mentions implications outside marriage, and Salem’s eyes go wide, her mouth forming a little o. She has, clearly, taken the hint.
There’s a few moments of her realizing what Ozma is saying, followed by Salem breaking out into gentle laughter. She’s not laughing at Ozma, of course. She’s laughing at herself. ]
Oh! I see.
[ Her laughter passes, and Salem’s expression softens. She looks at Ozma now, her expression soft and open and plainly fond. She’s re-evaluating her request now, in light of Ozma’s explanation. Salem thinks about how it felt to tell stories with Ozma, how it felt to share a meal with him. To be held by him, to walk with him. She remembers the pang of worry she felt when Ozma said to the men downstairs that he would leave. She remembers what Ozma looks like, under all that armor — strong and well-built, but gentle to touch at the same time.
Salem does not know how to name these feelings. They are all brand-new to her. But she does know that she likes Ozma, likes to be with Ozma. He is warm and good; he makes her feel warm and good.
Softly: ]
Well...given that, I would still like it. If you bathed with me.
[ He is relieved to see the implications land. He watches surprise break across her face, watches her eyes go wide and utterly unguarded, and it twists something again in his chest. Her eyes are such a beautiful color: here, in the low light of this room, they are a deep sapphire blue that shifts nearly to the green of the ocean. (He thinks she would be delighted to see the ocean.)
He is openly relieved when she gives that gentle laugh of understanding: she looks and sounds amused and nothing worse, not horrified, not uncertain. Not guarded. Only amused. Ozma looks back at her, both of them gone soft and fond, and for a moment they just stand like that. He can already see the invitation written warm in her smile.
Given that, I would still like it. It is a rush to hear. He is back again to not knowing what to expect of this or of her; at once, he has again lost sight of where the boundaries should lie. But he cannot particularly say that he minds.
Well. It is not as though anyone will be surprised if they return late for breakfast. So long as Salem is unbothered, Ozma hardly minds. All that matters, right now, is the way she looks at him as she stands before the steaming floral bath.
Softly, in reply: ]
Then I would be glad to.
[ He sets about unbuckling his armor and setting it aside. She has seen him do this before. He is, admittedly, far more interested in seeing her undress. ]
[ Ozma says he would be glad to, and Salem can feel her heart race, not out of fear or worry, but out of a giddy kind of happiness she has never felt before. Salem smiles happily to herself as she begins to undress. She has never smiled like this in front of anyone but Ozma, and it occurs to her that maybe she does not want to. Perhaps this is for Ozma, and Ozma alone. The thought feels right, somehow.
Salem is not wearing any armor, so she is quicker to undress than Ozma is. She folds his clothes neatly by the side of the tub and steps into the fragrant, steaming water. It feels good, after a day of walking and a night under the stars, and Salem sighs out loud — she cannot help herself. She closes her eyes for a moment, letting herself feel present and relaxed.
When she opens her eyes, she immediately looks to Ozma. For a moment she just looks, watching him undress. There is a part of Salem that thinks that Ozma may not liked to be looked at, right now. There is a part of Salem that does not care. He is unlike anyone she has ever seen before, and while Salem knows she does not have much to compare to, she also believes, in this moment, that she could meet a hundred more men and still not find anyone like Ozma. He is broad, strong, sturdy, but his expression is gentle, caring. He has a lovely face. Salem wonders what it would be like to —
No. Salem, even with her limited information, is certain that is not proper. She will simply invite him in, and enjoy the bath. ]
[ Is he meant not to watch her? Difficult to say. He utterly fails at that, if so. Ozma keeps his attention on removing his armor, to start with, but then she is dropping his borrowed trousers and peeling off his borrowed tunic, revealing so much smooth pale skin that he is running his gaze over her body before he thinks to do otherwise.
She is beautiful. Tall and slender and elegant, and in the warm light of the fire, her hair spills across her shoulders and down her back like golden sunlight. Ozma is not one for poetry, but he is certain a poet could spend hours describing the curve of her back, the smooth stretch of her thighs. She sinks into the water and he refocuses.
With the armor set neatly down, it is simple to strip out of his clothing. He has done worse than wear a tunic through two hikes and two battles— but it is still an immense relief to peel it off and be free of all that dirt and sweat. He does away with the tunic, then the trousers, then hesitates at his underwear. Ozma slides a look back to Salem, to see whether she is watching. There is a little jolt when their eyes meet.
He hesitates to be naked in front of her. She— well, she'll learn a great deal about men very quickly, at this rate. There is no pretending he isn't half-hard. He wonders if he will see fascination or nervousness or— and this is purely hope— something hungrier and more intent, when she sees him fully stripped down to join her.
Nothing for it. He drops his underwear, sets it all aside, and goes to step into the water with her. The heat is excellent, and he sinks into it gladly, til the hot water is up around his shoulders. It feels so good against the aches of the hike and the armor and the fight, and he shuts his eyes a moment, runs his wet hands over his face with a low little hum of pleasure. ]
[ Salem looks away at the eye contact, but not for long. Ozma’s instincts are correct: she is learning very quickly about a lot of things. Once in a while, her nanny would speak to her about outside, in a hushed, careful tone that did not presume Salem would ever get to see the outside. It would have been dangerous for the nanny to suggest otherwise. Still, she gave Salem what little instruction she could, instruction she framed as “things a lady ought to know.” She spoke of men, once, and what they looked like, but never went into too much detail. Salem looks back to Ozma, matching what she sees to the conversation she’d had with her nanny many years ago. She has a difficult time articulating her thoughts beyond this: Ozma is beautiful, and she is glad he is joining her.
Ozma sinks into the bath, and he seems to be relaxed and enjoying himself. That is good. Salem smiles happily and follows his lead, first wetting her face before turning to the soaps so that she might wash herself. It’s only now that she realizes — ]
Oh, the inn has tiny soaps!
[ Salem sounds delighted by this development, and she eagerly picks one up and smells it before showing it to Ozma. It smell lovely — everything here does — but the scent is different from the bath. Salem figures it’s another plant-scent, but does not know which one it is. She has encountered so few plants, after all. ]
[ He leans back to soak his hair, and for a moment is preoccupied with the warmth and feeling of the water. Keeping his eyes shut is really the only way not to be distracted by the sight of Salem in the bath. He could spend a very long time admiring her like this.
But then she's getting excited again, voice pitching sweet and delighted, and Ozma draws himself upright again to blink at her with water trickling down his face. He takes the soap and leans in to smell it, then breaks into a smile and hands it back. ]
[ Salem seems absolutely delighted by this information, and as she takes her bath, she’ll ask Ozma about all the other soaps too, happily offering them up to him to inspect, not at all concerned that she might seem silly or annoying. After their bath and breakfast, Salem is absolutely full of energy, and while she keeps close to Ozma as they venture out into the village to buy clothes, she does seem a lot less nervous. She’s learning quickly about her new world, and by the middle of the day, she’s able to make simple transactions with shopkeepers and hold short conversations with some of the less intimidating people in the inn.
She’s very happy to be seeing and learning what, to her, is so much. She’s happy with her new clothes, too: the shopkeeper might have been a little confused when Salem requested he show her clothes fit for “walking and adventure,” but she’s managed to obtain a grey pair of slim pants, a few periwinkle tunics of similar make to Ozma’s, and a gown for daytime and a gown for sleeping. She chooses soft, cool colors that pick up the blue in her eyes, and she seems more at ease in her new clothes than she did in the dress her father gave her.
As the day wears on, it becomes clear that Salem very much enjoys venturing outside the inn. She is having a lovely time learning about the world. She is happy enough to be breathing fresh air. So, after their tour of the village is done, Salem and Ozma decide to explore a little more of the surrounding meadows and farmland, instead of heading straight back to the inn. They bring a dinner in a basket and a blanket, and Ozma leads the two of them to a different rolling field, this one full of small wildflowers -- daisies and the like. Salem gasps, as she tends to do, when they arrive. She has never seen so many flowers at once before, delicate and soft and beautiful.
Cautiously, to Ozma: ]
Will the flowers be alright if we step on them?
[ She doesn't know! She doesn't want to hurt them by mistake! ]
[ The new clothes suit her beautifully. This is, genuinely, the best day Ozma has had in... a very long time. He has returned from campaigns to fanfare and rejoicing, and by comparison, the excitement in this little village is nothing more than a mild chatter of gossip. But Salem's delight at every new thing— the way she stops to admire every colorful little moment he wouldn't have even noticed— warms him like sunshine. His face hurts with smiling.
So he laughs, not unkindly, as she turns to him to fuss over the flowers. He has the blanket folded over his shoulder and the basket on his arm, his staff and armor left behind, and there is something so freeing and safe about this moment it feels like yesterday's battle is a world away. ]
These little ones should spring back unharmed. And they will still grow back, year after year.
[ He shifts the blanket on his shoulder so that he can reach out for her hand. The sun is beginning to set, and it casts the flowers in a warm golden glow. He will lead them through it, up the gentle rise of a little hill, to spread the blanket. ]
[ Ozma laughs, and Salem smiles back. She likes it when he laughs. Salem takes his hand; she likes that even more. She has touched Ozma a lot, throughout the day -- at least, a lot by her standards. A lean against his shoulder here, a brush against his fingertips there. The touch has a language all its own. It says: I am here. I trust you. I like you. ]
Oh, good.
[ Now that the safety of the wildflowers has been established, Salem happily follows Ozma up the hill. She lets him set down the basket and spread out the blanket before grabbing his hand again, and pulling him down onto the blanket with her. Salem has no time to waste! She would like to lie down in a field full of flowers right now, please!
Salem's grin is mischievous and playful, almost teasing, when she's so adamantly requesting Ozma's presence. But once she's lying down on the blanket properly, and he's settled on the blanket beside her, she rolls over, plucks a single flower, and rolls back to face Ozma. She holds the tiny flower out to him, her expression now earnestly open and soft. ]
Here. This is for you.
[ Salem says this with the same gravity that she used to compliment Ozma's soup. This is a gift. That's important. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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. ]
no subject
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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But, oh. You are a good man. He looks up at her, startled and pleased. When she trips over her words, fumbles through I like you, Ozma looks a new sort of helpless. He— he knows it isn't the schoolyard sort of I like you. It is something deeper and clumsier and just as pure. She speaks so carefully, trying to puzzle out the most proper and respectful way to invite him in, and a smile breaks small and warm and soppy across his face. ]
Again, we worry for each other's comfort.
[ He sets down the bundle of clothing in his arms, beside the towels and little soaps. ]
Sharing a bath, or sharing a bed... [ He gives an uncomfortable little breath of a laugh. ] It carries certain implications. Even outside of marriage. [ That's a hint, Salem!! ] I only mean to understand what you would ask of me.
[ He already does, but he would like for her to understand. And he would especially like to be spared the embarrassment of having to be any more overt aloud. ]
no subject
There’s a few moments of her realizing what Ozma is saying, followed by Salem breaking out into gentle laughter. She’s not laughing at Ozma, of course. She’s laughing at herself. ]
Oh! I see.
[ Her laughter passes, and Salem’s expression softens. She looks at Ozma now, her expression soft and open and plainly fond. She’s re-evaluating her request now, in light of Ozma’s explanation. Salem thinks about how it felt to tell stories with Ozma, how it felt to share a meal with him. To be held by him, to walk with him. She remembers the pang of worry she felt when Ozma said to the men downstairs that he would leave. She remembers what Ozma looks like, under all that armor — strong and well-built, but gentle to touch at the same time.
Salem does not know how to name these feelings. They are all brand-new to her. But she does know that she likes Ozma, likes to be with Ozma. He is warm and good; he makes her feel warm and good.
Softly: ]
Well...given that, I would still like it. If you bathed with me.
no subject
He is openly relieved when she gives that gentle laugh of understanding: she looks and sounds amused and nothing worse, not horrified, not uncertain. Not guarded. Only amused. Ozma looks back at her, both of them gone soft and fond, and for a moment they just stand like that. He can already see the invitation written warm in her smile.
Given that, I would still like it. It is a rush to hear. He is back again to not knowing what to expect of this or of her; at once, he has again lost sight of where the boundaries should lie. But he cannot particularly say that he minds.
Well. It is not as though anyone will be surprised if they return late for breakfast. So long as Salem is unbothered, Ozma hardly minds. All that matters, right now, is the way she looks at him as she stands before the steaming floral bath.
Softly, in reply: ]
Then I would be glad to.
[ He sets about unbuckling his armor and setting it aside. She has seen him do this before. He is, admittedly, far more interested in seeing her undress. ]
no subject
Salem is not wearing any armor, so she is quicker to undress than Ozma is. She folds his clothes neatly by the side of the tub and steps into the fragrant, steaming water. It feels good, after a day of walking and a night under the stars, and Salem sighs out loud — she cannot help herself. She closes her eyes for a moment, letting herself feel present and relaxed.
When she opens her eyes, she immediately looks to Ozma. For a moment she just looks, watching him undress. There is a part of Salem that thinks that Ozma may not liked to be looked at, right now. There is a part of Salem that does not care. He is unlike anyone she has ever seen before, and while Salem knows she does not have much to compare to, she also believes, in this moment, that she could meet a hundred more men and still not find anyone like Ozma. He is broad, strong, sturdy, but his expression is gentle, caring. He has a lovely face. Salem wonders what it would be like to —
No. Salem, even with her limited information, is certain that is not proper. She will simply invite him in, and enjoy the bath. ]
Come in. The warmth is nice.
cw nudity and light nsfw
She is beautiful. Tall and slender and elegant, and in the warm light of the fire, her hair spills across her shoulders and down her back like golden sunlight. Ozma is not one for poetry, but he is certain a poet could spend hours describing the curve of her back, the smooth stretch of her thighs. She sinks into the water and he refocuses.
With the armor set neatly down, it is simple to strip out of his clothing. He has done worse than wear a tunic through two hikes and two battles— but it is still an immense relief to peel it off and be free of all that dirt and sweat. He does away with the tunic, then the trousers, then hesitates at his underwear. Ozma slides a look back to Salem, to see whether she is watching. There is a little jolt when their eyes meet.
He hesitates to be naked in front of her. She— well, she'll learn a great deal about men very quickly, at this rate. There is no pretending he isn't half-hard. He wonders if he will see fascination or nervousness or— and this is purely hope— something hungrier and more intent, when she sees him fully stripped down to join her.
Nothing for it. He drops his underwear, sets it all aside, and goes to step into the water with her. The heat is excellent, and he sinks into it gladly, til the hot water is up around his shoulders. It feels so good against the aches of the hike and the armor and the fight, and he shuts his eyes a moment, runs his wet hands over his face with a low little hum of pleasure. ]
cws continue
Ozma sinks into the bath, and he seems to be relaxed and enjoying himself. That is good. Salem smiles happily and follows his lead, first wetting her face before turning to the soaps so that she might wash herself. It’s only now that she realizes — ]
Oh, the inn has tiny soaps!
[ Salem sounds delighted by this development, and she eagerly picks one up and smells it before showing it to Ozma. It smell lovely — everything here does — but the scent is different from the bath. Salem figures it’s another plant-scent, but does not know which one it is. She has encountered so few plants, after all. ]
Which kind is this?
[ (It’s rose.) ]
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But then she's getting excited again, voice pitching sweet and delighted, and Ozma draws himself upright again to blink at her with water trickling down his face. He takes the soap and leans in to smell it, then breaks into a smile and hands it back. ]
Ah-- I think this one is rose.
no subject
She’s very happy to be seeing and learning what, to her, is so much. She’s happy with her new clothes, too: the shopkeeper might have been a little confused when Salem requested he show her clothes fit for “walking and adventure,” but she’s managed to obtain a grey pair of slim pants, a few periwinkle tunics of similar make to Ozma’s, and a gown for daytime and a gown for sleeping. She chooses soft, cool colors that pick up the blue in her eyes, and she seems more at ease in her new clothes than she did in the dress her father gave her.
As the day wears on, it becomes clear that Salem very much enjoys venturing outside the inn. She is having a lovely time learning about the world. She is happy enough to be breathing fresh air. So, after their tour of the village is done, Salem and Ozma decide to explore a little more of the surrounding meadows and farmland, instead of heading straight back to the inn. They bring a dinner in a basket and a blanket, and Ozma leads the two of them to a different rolling field, this one full of small wildflowers -- daisies and the like. Salem gasps, as she tends to do, when they arrive. She has never seen so many flowers at once before, delicate and soft and beautiful.
Cautiously, to Ozma: ]
Will the flowers be alright if we step on them?
[ She doesn't know! She doesn't want to hurt them by mistake! ]
no subject
So he laughs, not unkindly, as she turns to him to fuss over the flowers. He has the blanket folded over his shoulder and the basket on his arm, his staff and armor left behind, and there is something so freeing and safe about this moment it feels like yesterday's battle is a world away. ]
These little ones should spring back unharmed. And they will still grow back, year after year.
[ He shifts the blanket on his shoulder so that he can reach out for her hand. The sun is beginning to set, and it casts the flowers in a warm golden glow. He will lead them through it, up the gentle rise of a little hill, to spread the blanket. ]
no subject
Oh, good.
[ Now that the safety of the wildflowers has been established, Salem happily follows Ozma up the hill. She lets him set down the basket and spread out the blanket before grabbing his hand again, and pulling him down onto the blanket with her. Salem has no time to waste! She would like to lie down in a field full of flowers right now, please!
Salem's grin is mischievous and playful, almost teasing, when she's so adamantly requesting Ozma's presence. But once she's lying down on the blanket properly, and he's settled on the blanket beside her, she rolls over, plucks a single flower, and rolls back to face Ozma. She holds the tiny flower out to him, her expression now earnestly open and soft. ]
Here. This is for you.
[ Salem says this with the same gravity that she used to compliment Ozma's soup. This is a gift. That's important. ]