[ Salem agrees, her voice soft. She’s glad Ozma understands — at least, she thinks he understands. Salem returns to her task. Forming stone will be more difficult than clearing the grass. There was air to practice with, in her tower, but no earth. Salem kneels on the ground; she does not seem to care whether or not she gets her rather delicate ladies’ dress dirty.
(There’s a part of her that wants to get it dirty, wants to tear it up and destroy it. It is a thing her father gave her. It is not hers.)
She hovers her palms just over the dirt. Slowly, the tiny rocks begin to coalesce into smaller stones. She works at this for quite a while, longer than perhaps the average magic-user should, but she manages to form a small ring of stones that hopefully can keep a fire in check. Satisfied, Salem snaps her fingers, and the dry bits of dead grass remaining in the center of the stone circle ignite, starting a small fire. Salem sits back, now smiling. She’s clearly proud of her modest fire, and she waves Ozma over. ]
Whatever it is may well be the best dinner I’ve ever had. [ These aren’t a lady’s courtesies — Salem really means this in earnest, and she speaks with a very genuine source of forcefulness. ] Because I’m not having it alone.
[ Meals, in Salem’s tower, served primarily to keep her alive and mark the passage of time. They were not things to be shared, not acts of kindness or consideration. Besides, she was rarely properly hungry, only because she didn’t get to do much that would truly tire her out. Now, after all this walking, Salem thinks she could probably eat a horse. ]
[ He rolls out the bedroll while she readies the fire, and assembles his pack and bundle of spare clothes as a pillow. The result is not elegant, but it will have to do. He'll sleep in the grass with his head on his arm; so long as the night stays mild, it won't do him any harm. A night of poor sleep on cold ground will be easier for him than for her.
With that, her fire springs to life, and he takes up their dinner supplies. Ozma nods his approval of the fire and carries his little armload over. Her work is rough, but there's no shame in that. He hasn't had a traveling companion to build their fire in some time. ]
You may reconsider once you taste it. [ But he smiles back at her as he says it, as he conjures water into their little pot and sets it upon the flames to boil. ] Somehow I didn't think to plan for company.
[ He'd thought they would have made it back to town for the first night, or perhaps he hadn't really thought that far at all. He still has no idea how many nights there may be; how long will she wish to travel with him? Their first destination is, at a stretch, just town enough that she might procure a horse. But can she ride? Not on her own, surely. Can they find someone trustworthy to take her where she wishes to go?
Still. Those are her decisions, and he hardly minds the company. Ozma sets his little roll of ingredients down. ]
We'll want to cut the meat into pieces, and dice one of the apples. By magic or with a knife. If you'll give me a moment, I want to take this armor off.
[ It is fine armor, and he's accustomed to the weight, but if they're settling in for the night he can finally be free of it. He sits across from her, and begins with the bracers strapped over his wrists. This will be something of a process, but he knows it by heart, even in the low and flickering light of their fire. ]
[ Ozma not thinking of planning for company before he goes on a rescue mission has the same ring as his refusal to take her father’s riches. It is so unexpectedly sweet, and maybe a touch foolish. Salem smiles. She’s been doing a lot of that, since she left — she’s probably smiled more in these last several hours than she has in her entire life. She feels warm, and there’s a part of her that knows that it’s not just because of the fire. ]
Oh, take your time.
[ All that armor strikes Salem as heavy, and probably difficult to put on and take off. Salem watches Ozma for a moment, still reveling in the fact that she’s sitting outside, around a fire, with another person. That person, she’s not disappointed to note, is...well-built, under all that armor.
But Salem knows from her stories that it’s rude to stare, so she drops her gaze and picks up the apple. She’s never held a knife before — she’s never been allowed — so magic will have to do. Salem’s magic has mostly been practiced on small objects like this apple, so she feels competent enough to work on this, making slicing motions across the apple’s skin with her first two fingers, and letting the little cubes fall into her lap. ]
So we just — boil them?
[ That’s probably a stupid question, but Salem has never cooked before, so she wants to be sure. ]
[ He unclasps the bracers, which makes it easier to do away with the studded gloves. The straps on the pauldrons are tricky, and easier to navigate with bare fingers. It's a relief to get the mantle up and over his head and set it on the grass beside him, then unclasp his cape and fold it neatly.
By the time Salem has the apple diced, he's done away with the breastplate and the faulds that buckle at his waist. The armor is all stacked neatly in the grass beside him, and Ozma is bending to work the armor off of his legs. He's just in his tunic, now, brown forearms bare, and it's much more comfortable. He gives a contented little sigh at the touch of cool air.
He looks up at the question, blinking. ]
Yes? We'll just put it all in the pot. [ He has the good grace to look a little sheepish about this, because, again, he can't imagine it's of the caliber she's used to. ] We have bread for the soup— [ of the sort that is so tough there's no point in eating it without dunking it in something warm ] —and the last of the cheese and apples can be breakfast. We should make it to town for lunch.
[ Salem nods, and gingerly places the apples into the soup, a few cubes at a time. Ozma’s sheepish look gives her some pause — did she say something wrong? Salem wonders if he’s still self-conscious about the food, wonders how to ease that worry without saying something that will just make him sad, instead. She’ll just have to keep things positive. When she speaks again, her tone is light, doing her best to sound reassuring. Salem has never had to reassure anyone before, and she hopes she’s doing a decent job. ]
Well, it sounds lovely. Really. [ Then, again with feeling: ] Thank you.
[ She’s thanking him for more than just the soup. Salem is thanking him for the stars, for the conversation, for the freedom. And for the company, too. It’s a new feeling, not being lonely, and Salem never wants to let it go.
She lets that hang there, for a moment, before following up with: ]
[ He gives her a smile at the thank-you, intending it to be a polite little acknowledgement, then realizes the depth of feeling behind the words. He lingers there, smiling at her more softly now, while the moment hangs between them.
It's... nice. He'd had some idea of what to expect of her from her story, but not much. Not enough to know what escorting her away from the tower might be like, supposing he made it that far. He'd focused on the duty, the task ahead of him, and thought no further on it. It had seemed unkind, in a way, to dwell on what she would be like. To dream up thoughts of what she might be like to him. He really does not want a person as a prize.
He sets about getting the last of his armor undone. ]
If you would. You can use the last of the spices, too.
[ It's a crumpled little bag tucked in with the rest. He really should have come with more supplies, but there's nothing to be done for it now. ]
And then perhaps you could teach me the stars while it cooks.
[ Salem is glad to see Ozma’s softer smile. It’s a nice one. She takes it to mean that she’s done what she wanted, that he understands that he doesn’t need to be worried about the soup. That he doesn’t need to worry about anything like that. She’s not going to judge him; she’s got no basis on which to make any sort of judgment. Salem is just happy to be here.
She takes the meat, using the same rough, self-taught magic she used on the apple. Once the meat is in the pot, she moves on to the spices, opening up the bag and taking a little whiff, as curious about this as she has been about grass, about sky, about animals. She adds the spices carefully, a pinch at a time, imitating storybook illustrations about humble cooks. It probably looks a little ridiculous, but Salem, frankly, is having too much fun to be self-conscious.
Once she’s done with that, she peers into the pot, curious to see what happens when it cooks. It sure is boiling! The whole thing is very exciting, and when Salem finally sits back, she’s grinning happily. ]
Come over here. I’ll need to point out which stars I’m talking about, if these stories are to be any good.
[ He sets the last of his armor aside just in time to watch her work; she grins down at his scuffed little tin pot, throwing in pinches of spice like this is some incredible marvel. It lights up her whole body when she smiles. She looks so eagerly alive, like this, leaned over the pot with the knees of her fine gown in the dirt, her eyes bright and very blue.
Certainly the most enthusiastic traveling companion he's had. Ozma sits and watches her a moment, charmed, before he realizes he's simply staring and it's impolite. He is rescued when she waves him over. ]
Alright.
[ Free of the armor, he feels light as air. This is always his favorite moment in the evening, after hours of walking with plate mail strapped on. He stretches, arms high over his head, and flexes his shoulders gratefully before he steps over to her.
He takes a seat in the grass beside her, their backs to the fire. ]
Do you have a favorite?
[ A favorite star, a favorite story. He'd like to see her light up again with that smile. ]
[ There's a part of Salem, an old instinct, that doesn't expect Ozma to agree to sit beside her. As a very small child, she used to beg her father to play with her, to help brush the hair of the dolls he'd given her. Later, when she learned that that was unrealistic, she simply asked him to visit more often. Eventually, she learned to stop asking at all.
But Ozma sits close, like he wants to be there. He asks Salem about her favorites. He is very, very unlike her father, and that comforts her. ]
Well, I think I mentioned the seven sisters to you? I'll start with them. Look at that cluster, right there.
[ Salem points up at the sky and launches into her tale. Once she's telling her story, her whole demeanor changes -- she is confident, animated, and tells her story with the skill of a person whose whole life revolved around such tales. Ordinary conversation is difficult, for Salem, because she isn't as used to it. These stories are as familiar as breathing.
Salem mostly keeps her eyes on the sky, while she's telling her story, but once it's finished, she finally turns back to Ozma. His hopes have panned out -- that smile is back. ]
I know more, but I don't want to bore you. Should we -- do we need to look at the soup?
[ It needs to be stirred, right? Salem figures that's something you do to soup. ]
[ She points, and, obediently, he leans close to follow the elegant slant of he finger. His shoulder brushes hers. The night is cooling, but they are near enough to the fire to feel a little warmth at their backs. There is something refreshing and beautiful about the cold damp air against his face and the gentle crackle of magic-fed flame at his back.
It's a good story, and she tells it well: her voice rises and falls with emotion, with conviction, and he is swept along with her. It is easy to look up at the stars and let himself see what she's seeing. Ozma has always liked fairy tales.
When she turns that smile on him, he finds himself grinning back. ]
You wouldn't bore me. [ But, yes, she has a point about the soup. ] I will go take a look.
[ With that, he rises and returns to their little campfire. Ozma considers his one bowl and one spoon, wincing a little at the humble sight. Perhaps he can shape something a bit more elegant out of stone, but his magic has always been trained for battle and the odd moment of utility, not for anything particularly... detail-oriented.
He stirs the soup, tests a bite of meat— he would not call it soft but it is not miserably chewy— and deems it good enough. Simple and watery, but... it's warm and at least a bit flavorful? ]
[ Ozma's shoulder brushes up against Salem's, and without thinking, Salem leans into that contact, that brief feeling of warmth. The moment passes, as Ozma settles back to listen to her tale, but it lingers in the back of Salem's mind. It means nothing to Ozma, probably. It means everything to her. It has been years since Salem felt anything so gentle, even if that gentleness was unintentional, on Ozma's part.
So when Ozma rises to check on the soup, Salem follows immediately, staying as close as she thinks is safe. She has learned to be careful, when asking for closeness or touch -- it is safer to not really ask, so much as give a reason for the other person to want to make that contact. Ozma's fingertips might brush up against hers, when he gives her a bowl of soup. He might need someone to lean on as he eats; he could be that tired.
Salem shies away a little, when Ozma winces. She's not exactly sure what's wrong -- the soup looks fine to her -- so she reasons that she must be standing too close, that Ozma needs space. Salem figures it's a good time to reassure him, again. ]
It looks very good. I can help ser--
[ Salem stops there, about to say serve, finally realizing what's wrong. There's only one bowl. Glad that she's not what was wrong, Salem draws close again. ]
You use your bowl. I can shape a bowl for myself. I used to practice making little toys, when I was first learning magic, back -- [ Salem hesitates for a beat. ] -- back there.
[ She tries to keep her tone light, as if she isn't talking about her former prison. This is meant to comfort Ozma, after all. ] It passed the time.
[ She keeps close to him, and Ozma notices only vaguely. It is nice that she is comfortable with him; it is nice that she has someone to be close to. He can't imagine how lonely she might have been, or for how long, and so of course it must be exciting to have new company. But then, maybe she is just very hungry for the soup.
He blinks at her when she falters, and then when she offers. He shakes his head without hesitation. ]
Oh, no, please. This is for you. [ He says it on a little smile, genuine, and sets about pouring a bowl. ] You are my guest.
[ It would be terribly impolite to ask her for a bowl, wouldn't it? She does not owe him anything, and by all rights, she has had a very strange and stressful day. ]
[ At you are my guest, Salem properly stares at Ozma, as if he'd just said something to her in a foreign language. She's a guest. Salem can barely believe it, can barely register that Ozma is talking about her. She's never been a guest before. To be a guest, one has to travel somewhere. ]
I -- yes. But you need to eat, too. That pot is too hot to eat out of.
[ If Ozma insists on Salem using his bowl, then she'll just have to make him another. She's worked with little trinkets before, and while she's got less practice with shaping actual earth, the principle can't be all that different. Salem's brow furrows in concentration as she cups her hands over the dirt, raising it up into the sky and shaping it as she goes. She wants this to turn out well. Ozma deserves that much.
Salem eventually manages to form a bowl, which she bluntly hands off to Ozma. Congratulations, it's his now. ]
Here.
[ It's strangely oblong, and a tad lumpy in places, but it does look like a perfectly adequate clay bowl. Salem is sure Ozma is used to better, can do better, but maybe if she passes this off with confidence, he won't mind it. ]
[ She looks baffled at him, and he looks baffled by her bafflement. He's well-aware he did not prepare adequately, but they've covered that already, so there should be no more need to dwell on it. Perhaps they're again disagreeing on the role of a rescuer. He can again insist that she owes him nothing, but they've been over that several times already.
She crouches to make her bowl, and he'll not get in her way once she's clearly set on the thing; in any case, it is nice to watch her work. His companion takes on this expression of absolute concentration, and that intent focus looks nice on her face, as transformative as the smile.
She thrusts out the bowl to him, and he blinks at it as he accepts it. It is, in a sense, charming that she's made something no more beautiful or intricate than he could manage. Ozma's smile returns, and he trades her for the full bowl of soup. ]
Thank you. Here. [ He takes the bowl she's made him and fills it to match. Then he sets his hand upon the ground, and just as she'd shaped a bowl, he dredges up a spoon. He is faster than her, and draws more on hard stone than clay, with sharp confident movements. He shapes the curve of the spoon with the pad of his thumb and blows the remaining dirt away. ] We can eat under the stars, if you have more stories to share.
[ Salem takes the bowl of hot soup, letting the warmth of it flow through her fingers and palms. It feels nice, in this cool evening air. Salem's focused, determined stare resolves itself into a softer, gentler smile. This is her first meal as a free woman. She can't wait to know what it tastes like. ]
Thank you. I'd like that.
[ Truthfully, Salem would be happy eating anywhere that isn't her tower, but she's especially glad to spend this time outside, under the stars. Once Ozma takes his soup, Salem will move back to her original spot, her back to the fire and her face tilted up towards the sky. She'll start up her next tale after a few bites of the soup -- it would be rude to let it go cold. Salem takes a few bites, and while it's not, objectively speaking, the best soup she's ever had, taste-wise, it is in many other ways the best soup she's ever had. It's a gift, an act of care, a symbol of freedom. For a moment, Salem is at a loss for words, instead just smiling at the soup. ]
It's -- it's wonderful. [ She looks back to Ozma, her face set in a very earnest, very genuine expression. ] I think you ought to be very proud of it.
[ Salem says that with conviction, with feeling -- this Ozma is a good person, and that is something to be praised, to acknowledge. Salem has met so few of those, if any, in her lifetime. ]
[ He shuts off the added light from his staff with a flick of magic, fetches a little of the bread for them to eat, and follows her back into the cool darkness and damp grass. When they settle down together, he sits close again. She may want to point out more stars to him, and the night is turning brisk enough that it feels nice to be side by side. She doesn't seem to mind. He'll scoot away if she takes it as impolite.
Instead, she turns that beaming smile on him. I think you ought to be very proud of it, she says, firm and earnest as though it's immensely important he know he's done well. The soup is only a bit of fruit and meat boiled in whatever spice mix he'd picked up in the last town. It's hardly anything more than hot water with rations thrown in. But there's moonlight reflected in her blue eyes, and her smile is so bright, and something warm and tender twists in his chest. ]
I— [ He is grinning back at her, his smile hopelessly soft. ] I am glad.
[ He sips his soup, enjoys the heat of it against the chill of the air, even if the flavor is mild. Ozma looks to the stars, and leans close to her shoulder again to point out a new spot, the brightest in the sky. ] I liked the story of the Seven Sisters. Do you know any about that star there?
I do. Some say a very brave mountain climber put it there.
[ Ozma sits close and leans closer, and this time, Salem doesn't hold still. Ozma called her his guest, and he is wearing such a soft smile, a smile that Salem can only call kind, even though she's seen very few acts of kindness before. There is a kind of safety in that smile, and Salem lets herself lean against Ozma in turn, their shoulders pressed gently together. Ozma is warm and sturdy. It is a warmth that cannot come from blankets, from fire, or from food. Salem hasn't felt it in...a very long time. Salem feels her eyes become damp, and she tries to blink that dampness away, not wanting Ozma to think she's sad. She isn't. She's the happiest she's ever been.
After taking those few moments to adjust, Salem swallows and begins to tell her story. This one is dearer to her, a little more personal: it's the story of a star, but it's also the story of someone who wanted to see the world, more than anything. The mountain climber becomes the star. The mountain climber can see the whole world, now. He is surrounded by so many starry sisters and brothers; he is never alone.
When she finishes her story, Salem is quiet, occasionally sipping her soup, but mostly looking up at the sky, taking in the beauty of it all, letting herself be at peace. If Ozma doesn't move too much, she'll rest her head in the space where his shoulder meets his neck and close her eyes, allowing herself to feel...not quite held, but perhaps supported. ]
[ He realizes her pause, the way she blinks away from him and swallows hard, and concern crosses his face; he tenses against her shoulder. Then she rallies and begins to speak, and from the first note of fondness in her voice, he thinks he understands.
She is not trapped anymore. She is here under the stars, free to tell stories over dinner. He could not possibly fault her for feeling it deeply. Ozma relaxes against her shoulder, and simply sips his soup and listens.
It is a good story, and she is a very good storyteller. He enjoys her voice, the emotion in it, the rhythm in the way she speaks. He leans back against her as she gestures, hanging on every movement, wholly devoted to the story as she spins in. When the last line dies away, they are again quiet under the stars. There is nothing but the crackle of the fire at their backs.
Then she tips her head onto his shoulder, and Ozma goes breathless. He shifts minutely under her so that he can look, glancing down at her; she's tucked herself against his neck and closed her eyes, and again something sweet and tender pitches in his chest. Ah. Her hair tickles against his collarbone where skin is bared over the neck of his tunic. He can feel the gentle rise and fall as she breathes.
He sets his soup carefully aside, and shifts to put his arm gently around her. He is acutely aware of the soft curves of her bare shoulders under the moonlight, the smooth line of her neck, the little smile on her face in the darkness. He is aware of how beautiful she is. He will hold her like this for as long as she will permit him. A little celebration of being here, warm together in the cool night, under this sky. ]
[ As soon as Ozma puts his arm around her, Salem leans in closer, getting as much contact as she can. She feels Ozma’s arms across her shoulders, his hand resting on her opposite arm. Her side is fully pressed against his, and she can feel the gentle rising and falling of his breathing. She turns towards it a little, bringing her knees up, practically curling into him. It has been years since Salem was held by another person, and longer still since she was hugged for more than a brief, obligatory moment. Salem feels full in a way that isn’t from the soup. It’s hard to describe; she feels more like a person, and less like a possession.
Salem’s empty soup bowl sits in the crook of her lap. She holds it, for a few minutes, before her grip slackens and her breathing slows. Salem’s eyes close. She’s comfortable, she’s safe, but she’s also exhausted. She and Ozma probably walked miles. Before today, the farthest Salem had ever walked was from one end of her room to the other. She feels worn out, for the first time in her life. And that feels good, in its own way.
Salem is awfully close to falling asleep. She barely notices, and she doesn’t care. As far as Salem is concerned, she’d be happy to be held like this for days. ]
[ They stay like that for a long time. As she settles in, he cannot bring himself to move her. There is something about the way she tucks herself against him and just relaxes, goes boneless as though devoting herself completely to this moment. It is as earnest and wholehearted as her smile, and he cannot imagine growing tired of it.
But the night is coming on colder now, and with her drifting to sleep, the magic sustaining the fire is trickling away. When even the embers are dark, Ozma rubs a hand gently over her arm. ]
[ Salem blinks groggily and slowly lifts her head to look up at Ozma. She’s only half-awake, her expression very open, and very soft. She’s also, for better or for worse, only registered about half of what Ozma said. ]
‘m not a lady anymore. I’m Salem.
[ She was a lady back there, in her tower. That title was something her father gave her. Salem wants no part of it. She does not want his lands, does not want his riches. She does not want anything that could chain her to him. She is free, now. My lady was a prisoner’s title.
Salem sighs contentedly and rests her head again, stubbornly refusing to break contact. She’s comfortable here; why not just stay where she is?
[ Oh. The expression on her face as she looks muzzily up at him, as she says I'm Salem, all soft with sleep...
It does something very sweet and sharp to him like a knife between the ribs, and Ozma finds that his breath has caught in his throat. She nuzzles back in against him, and he thinks perhaps he'll just stay here. Perhaps he'll just sleep sitting up, holding her.
But, no, it is getting cold and it is getting late. The bedroll is all set up. They will have more walking to do tomorrow. ]
Salem. Will you come to bed?
[ His tone is soft and low, and he shifts carefully so as not to jostle her overmuch. He begins to rise with his arm steady around her, gently urging her up. His legs are ringing numb and prickly with disuse, but he doesn't want to stumble and jolt her. She is so sweet and soft like this, more open in sleep than anyone he's ever seen. There's a trust to it that could stop his breath. ]
[ Salem feels Ozma begin to stand, and that does send a clearer message. She lets herself be guided upwards, no longer resting her head on Ozma’s shoulder, but still pressed close to his side. The soup bowl falls unceremoniously into the grass, but at least it’s empty. Salem’s legs are a little numb too, but that’s fine, because she can keep leaning on Ozma.
Now that she’s standing, and marginally more awake, Salem responds: ]
Mm, yes, sorry — I must have fallen asleep. [ She chuckles softly at herself. ] It’s been quite a long day. Bed sounds — bed sounds nice.
It has. [ Her little chuckle warms his own smile, brings breath of a laugh to his voice. ] The bed is yours tonight.
[ He is happy to keep a steadying arm around her, keep her tucked to his side, as he guides them back past the cooling firepit and to the assembled bed. At least the ground isn't terribly hard, here, on the thick bed of grass. She should be warm enough in his blankets, and she'll have his pack and spare clothes for a pillow.
It's turned cool enough that he may regret that, but, well. He has his magic, and she has had a more difficult day than him. ]
[ When Ozma says that the bed is hers, a cruel but obvious fact dawns on Salem: there is only one bedroll. Salem frowns, trying to look as stern as she can while still being held by Ozma. She is not especially successful, but at least she’s giving it her best. ]
But that’s your bed. And you’ll be cold without it. Where will you sleep?
[ Certainly not in the grass. Ozma had to do twice the fighting she did — he had to overpower her father and a larger army. This day has been exhausting for Salem, but she can only assume Ozma is also very tired. ]
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[ Salem agrees, her voice soft. She’s glad Ozma understands — at least, she thinks he understands. Salem returns to her task. Forming stone will be more difficult than clearing the grass. There was air to practice with, in her tower, but no earth. Salem kneels on the ground; she does not seem to care whether or not she gets her rather delicate ladies’ dress dirty.
(There’s a part of her that wants to get it dirty, wants to tear it up and destroy it. It is a thing her father gave her. It is not hers.)
She hovers her palms just over the dirt. Slowly, the tiny rocks begin to coalesce into smaller stones. She works at this for quite a while, longer than perhaps the average magic-user should, but she manages to form a small ring of stones that hopefully can keep a fire in check. Satisfied, Salem snaps her fingers, and the dry bits of dead grass remaining in the center of the stone circle ignite, starting a small fire. Salem sits back, now smiling. She’s clearly proud of her modest fire, and she waves Ozma over. ]
Whatever it is may well be the best dinner I’ve ever had. [ These aren’t a lady’s courtesies — Salem really means this in earnest, and she speaks with a very genuine source of forcefulness. ] Because I’m not having it alone.
[ Meals, in Salem’s tower, served primarily to keep her alive and mark the passage of time. They were not things to be shared, not acts of kindness or consideration. Besides, she was rarely properly hungry, only because she didn’t get to do much that would truly tire her out. Now, after all this walking, Salem thinks she could probably eat a horse. ]
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With that, her fire springs to life, and he takes up their dinner supplies. Ozma nods his approval of the fire and carries his little armload over. Her work is rough, but there's no shame in that. He hasn't had a traveling companion to build their fire in some time. ]
You may reconsider once you taste it. [ But he smiles back at her as he says it, as he conjures water into their little pot and sets it upon the flames to boil. ] Somehow I didn't think to plan for company.
[ He'd thought they would have made it back to town for the first night, or perhaps he hadn't really thought that far at all. He still has no idea how many nights there may be; how long will she wish to travel with him? Their first destination is, at a stretch, just town enough that she might procure a horse. But can she ride? Not on her own, surely. Can they find someone trustworthy to take her where she wishes to go?
Still. Those are her decisions, and he hardly minds the company. Ozma sets his little roll of ingredients down. ]
We'll want to cut the meat into pieces, and dice one of the apples. By magic or with a knife. If you'll give me a moment, I want to take this armor off.
[ It is fine armor, and he's accustomed to the weight, but if they're settling in for the night he can finally be free of it. He sits across from her, and begins with the bracers strapped over his wrists. This will be something of a process, but he knows it by heart, even in the low and flickering light of their fire. ]
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Oh, take your time.
[ All that armor strikes Salem as heavy, and probably difficult to put on and take off. Salem watches Ozma for a moment, still reveling in the fact that she’s sitting outside, around a fire, with another person. That person, she’s not disappointed to note, is...well-built, under all that armor.
But Salem knows from her stories that it’s rude to stare, so she drops her gaze and picks up the apple. She’s never held a knife before — she’s never been allowed — so magic will have to do. Salem’s magic has mostly been practiced on small objects like this apple, so she feels competent enough to work on this, making slicing motions across the apple’s skin with her first two fingers, and letting the little cubes fall into her lap. ]
So we just — boil them?
[ That’s probably a stupid question, but Salem has never cooked before, so she wants to be sure. ]
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By the time Salem has the apple diced, he's done away with the breastplate and the faulds that buckle at his waist. The armor is all stacked neatly in the grass beside him, and Ozma is bending to work the armor off of his legs. He's just in his tunic, now, brown forearms bare, and it's much more comfortable. He gives a contented little sigh at the touch of cool air.
He looks up at the question, blinking. ]
Yes? We'll just put it all in the pot. [ He has the good grace to look a little sheepish about this, because, again, he can't imagine it's of the caliber she's used to. ] We have bread for the soup— [ of the sort that is so tough there's no point in eating it without dunking it in something warm ] —and the last of the cheese and apples can be breakfast. We should make it to town for lunch.
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Well, it sounds lovely. Really. [ Then, again with feeling: ] Thank you.
[ She’s thanking him for more than just the soup. Salem is thanking him for the stars, for the conversation, for the freedom. And for the company, too. It’s a new feeling, not being lonely, and Salem never wants to let it go.
She lets that hang there, for a moment, before following up with: ]
Shall I do the meat?
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It's... nice. He'd had some idea of what to expect of her from her story, but not much. Not enough to know what escorting her away from the tower might be like, supposing he made it that far. He'd focused on the duty, the task ahead of him, and thought no further on it. It had seemed unkind, in a way, to dwell on what she would be like. To dream up thoughts of what she might be like to him. He really does not want a person as a prize.
He sets about getting the last of his armor undone. ]
If you would. You can use the last of the spices, too.
[ It's a crumpled little bag tucked in with the rest. He really should have come with more supplies, but there's nothing to be done for it now. ]
And then perhaps you could teach me the stars while it cooks.
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[ Salem is glad to see Ozma’s softer smile. It’s a nice one. She takes it to mean that she’s done what she wanted, that he understands that he doesn’t need to be worried about the soup. That he doesn’t need to worry about anything like that. She’s not going to judge him; she’s got no basis on which to make any sort of judgment. Salem is just happy to be here.
She takes the meat, using the same rough, self-taught magic she used on the apple. Once the meat is in the pot, she moves on to the spices, opening up the bag and taking a little whiff, as curious about this as she has been about grass, about sky, about animals. She adds the spices carefully, a pinch at a time, imitating storybook illustrations about humble cooks. It probably looks a little ridiculous, but Salem, frankly, is having too much fun to be self-conscious.
Once she’s done with that, she peers into the pot, curious to see what happens when it cooks. It sure is boiling! The whole thing is very exciting, and when Salem finally sits back, she’s grinning happily. ]
Come over here. I’ll need to point out which stars I’m talking about, if these stories are to be any good.
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Certainly the most enthusiastic traveling companion he's had. Ozma sits and watches her a moment, charmed, before he realizes he's simply staring and it's impolite. He is rescued when she waves him over. ]
Alright.
[ Free of the armor, he feels light as air. This is always his favorite moment in the evening, after hours of walking with plate mail strapped on. He stretches, arms high over his head, and flexes his shoulders gratefully before he steps over to her.
He takes a seat in the grass beside her, their backs to the fire. ]
Do you have a favorite?
[ A favorite star, a favorite story. He'd like to see her light up again with that smile. ]
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But Ozma sits close, like he wants to be there. He asks Salem about her favorites. He is very, very unlike her father, and that comforts her. ]
Well, I think I mentioned the seven sisters to you? I'll start with them. Look at that cluster, right there.
[ Salem points up at the sky and launches into her tale. Once she's telling her story, her whole demeanor changes -- she is confident, animated, and tells her story with the skill of a person whose whole life revolved around such tales. Ordinary conversation is difficult, for Salem, because she isn't as used to it. These stories are as familiar as breathing.
Salem mostly keeps her eyes on the sky, while she's telling her story, but once it's finished, she finally turns back to Ozma. His hopes have panned out -- that smile is back. ]
I know more, but I don't want to bore you. Should we -- do we need to look at the soup?
[ It needs to be stirred, right? Salem figures that's something you do to soup. ]
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It's a good story, and she tells it well: her voice rises and falls with emotion, with conviction, and he is swept along with her. It is easy to look up at the stars and let himself see what she's seeing. Ozma has always liked fairy tales.
When she turns that smile on him, he finds himself grinning back. ]
You wouldn't bore me. [ But, yes, she has a point about the soup. ] I will go take a look.
[ With that, he rises and returns to their little campfire. Ozma considers his one bowl and one spoon, wincing a little at the humble sight. Perhaps he can shape something a bit more elegant out of stone, but his magic has always been trained for battle and the odd moment of utility, not for anything particularly... detail-oriented.
He stirs the soup, tests a bite of meat— he would not call it soft but it is not miserably chewy— and deems it good enough. Simple and watery, but... it's warm and at least a bit flavorful? ]
This should be ready in a moment.
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So when Ozma rises to check on the soup, Salem follows immediately, staying as close as she thinks is safe. She has learned to be careful, when asking for closeness or touch -- it is safer to not really ask, so much as give a reason for the other person to want to make that contact. Ozma's fingertips might brush up against hers, when he gives her a bowl of soup. He might need someone to lean on as he eats; he could be that tired.
Salem shies away a little, when Ozma winces. She's not exactly sure what's wrong -- the soup looks fine to her -- so she reasons that she must be standing too close, that Ozma needs space. Salem figures it's a good time to reassure him, again. ]
It looks very good. I can help ser--
[ Salem stops there, about to say serve, finally realizing what's wrong. There's only one bowl. Glad that she's not what was wrong, Salem draws close again. ]
You use your bowl. I can shape a bowl for myself. I used to practice making little toys, when I was first learning magic, back -- [ Salem hesitates for a beat. ] -- back there.
[ She tries to keep her tone light, as if she isn't talking about her former prison. This is meant to comfort Ozma, after all. ] It passed the time.
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He blinks at her when she falters, and then when she offers. He shakes his head without hesitation. ]
Oh, no, please. This is for you. [ He says it on a little smile, genuine, and sets about pouring a bowl. ] You are my guest.
[ It would be terribly impolite to ask her for a bowl, wouldn't it? She does not owe him anything, and by all rights, she has had a very strange and stressful day. ]
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I -- yes. But you need to eat, too. That pot is too hot to eat out of.
[ If Ozma insists on Salem using his bowl, then she'll just have to make him another. She's worked with little trinkets before, and while she's got less practice with shaping actual earth, the principle can't be all that different. Salem's brow furrows in concentration as she cups her hands over the dirt, raising it up into the sky and shaping it as she goes. She wants this to turn out well. Ozma deserves that much.
Salem eventually manages to form a bowl, which she bluntly hands off to Ozma. Congratulations, it's his now. ]
Here.
[ It's strangely oblong, and a tad lumpy in places, but it does look like a perfectly adequate clay bowl. Salem is sure Ozma is used to better, can do better, but maybe if she passes this off with confidence, he won't mind it. ]
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She crouches to make her bowl, and he'll not get in her way once she's clearly set on the thing; in any case, it is nice to watch her work. His companion takes on this expression of absolute concentration, and that intent focus looks nice on her face, as transformative as the smile.
She thrusts out the bowl to him, and he blinks at it as he accepts it. It is, in a sense, charming that she's made something no more beautiful or intricate than he could manage. Ozma's smile returns, and he trades her for the full bowl of soup. ]
Thank you. Here. [ He takes the bowl she's made him and fills it to match. Then he sets his hand upon the ground, and just as she'd shaped a bowl, he dredges up a spoon. He is faster than her, and draws more on hard stone than clay, with sharp confident movements. He shapes the curve of the spoon with the pad of his thumb and blows the remaining dirt away. ] We can eat under the stars, if you have more stories to share.
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Thank you. I'd like that.
[ Truthfully, Salem would be happy eating anywhere that isn't her tower, but she's especially glad to spend this time outside, under the stars. Once Ozma takes his soup, Salem will move back to her original spot, her back to the fire and her face tilted up towards the sky. She'll start up her next tale after a few bites of the soup -- it would be rude to let it go cold. Salem takes a few bites, and while it's not, objectively speaking, the best soup she's ever had, taste-wise, it is in many other ways the best soup she's ever had. It's a gift, an act of care, a symbol of freedom. For a moment, Salem is at a loss for words, instead just smiling at the soup. ]
It's -- it's wonderful. [ She looks back to Ozma, her face set in a very earnest, very genuine expression. ] I think you ought to be very proud of it.
[ Salem says that with conviction, with feeling -- this Ozma is a good person, and that is something to be praised, to acknowledge. Salem has met so few of those, if any, in her lifetime. ]
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Instead, she turns that beaming smile on him. I think you ought to be very proud of it, she says, firm and earnest as though it's immensely important he know he's done well. The soup is only a bit of fruit and meat boiled in whatever spice mix he'd picked up in the last town. It's hardly anything more than hot water with rations thrown in. But there's moonlight reflected in her blue eyes, and her smile is so bright, and something warm and tender twists in his chest. ]
I— [ He is grinning back at her, his smile hopelessly soft. ] I am glad.
[ He sips his soup, enjoys the heat of it against the chill of the air, even if the flavor is mild. Ozma looks to the stars, and leans close to her shoulder again to point out a new spot, the brightest in the sky. ] I liked the story of the Seven Sisters. Do you know any about that star there?
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[ Ozma sits close and leans closer, and this time, Salem doesn't hold still. Ozma called her his guest, and he is wearing such a soft smile, a smile that Salem can only call kind, even though she's seen very few acts of kindness before. There is a kind of safety in that smile, and Salem lets herself lean against Ozma in turn, their shoulders pressed gently together. Ozma is warm and sturdy. It is a warmth that cannot come from blankets, from fire, or from food. Salem hasn't felt it in...a very long time. Salem feels her eyes become damp, and she tries to blink that dampness away, not wanting Ozma to think she's sad. She isn't. She's the happiest she's ever been.
After taking those few moments to adjust, Salem swallows and begins to tell her story. This one is dearer to her, a little more personal: it's the story of a star, but it's also the story of someone who wanted to see the world, more than anything. The mountain climber becomes the star. The mountain climber can see the whole world, now. He is surrounded by so many starry sisters and brothers; he is never alone.
When she finishes her story, Salem is quiet, occasionally sipping her soup, but mostly looking up at the sky, taking in the beauty of it all, letting herself be at peace. If Ozma doesn't move too much, she'll rest her head in the space where his shoulder meets his neck and close her eyes, allowing herself to feel...not quite held, but perhaps supported. ]
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She is not trapped anymore. She is here under the stars, free to tell stories over dinner. He could not possibly fault her for feeling it deeply. Ozma relaxes against her shoulder, and simply sips his soup and listens.
It is a good story, and she is a very good storyteller. He enjoys her voice, the emotion in it, the rhythm in the way she speaks. He leans back against her as she gestures, hanging on every movement, wholly devoted to the story as she spins in. When the last line dies away, they are again quiet under the stars. There is nothing but the crackle of the fire at their backs.
Then she tips her head onto his shoulder, and Ozma goes breathless. He shifts minutely under her so that he can look, glancing down at her; she's tucked herself against his neck and closed her eyes, and again something sweet and tender pitches in his chest. Ah. Her hair tickles against his collarbone where skin is bared over the neck of his tunic. He can feel the gentle rise and fall as she breathes.
He sets his soup carefully aside, and shifts to put his arm gently around her. He is acutely aware of the soft curves of her bare shoulders under the moonlight, the smooth line of her neck, the little smile on her face in the darkness. He is aware of how beautiful she is. He will hold her like this for as long as she will permit him. A little celebration of being here, warm together in the cool night, under this sky. ]
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Salem’s empty soup bowl sits in the crook of her lap. She holds it, for a few minutes, before her grip slackens and her breathing slows. Salem’s eyes close. She’s comfortable, she’s safe, but she’s also exhausted. She and Ozma probably walked miles. Before today, the farthest Salem had ever walked was from one end of her room to the other. She feels worn out, for the first time in her life. And that feels good, in its own way.
Salem is awfully close to falling asleep. She barely notices, and she doesn’t care. As far as Salem is concerned, she’d be happy to be held like this for days. ]
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But the night is coming on colder now, and with her drifting to sleep, the magic sustaining the fire is trickling away. When even the embers are dark, Ozma rubs a hand gently over her arm. ]
My lady? It may be time to turn in.
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[ Salem blinks groggily and slowly lifts her head to look up at Ozma. She’s only half-awake, her expression very open, and very soft. She’s also, for better or for worse, only registered about half of what Ozma said. ]
‘m not a lady anymore. I’m Salem.
[ She was a lady back there, in her tower. That title was something her father gave her. Salem wants no part of it. She does not want his lands, does not want his riches. She does not want anything that could chain her to him. She is free, now. My lady was a prisoner’s title.
Salem sighs contentedly and rests her head again, stubbornly refusing to break contact. She’s comfortable here; why not just stay where she is?
Ozma might need to help her up. ]
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It does something very sweet and sharp to him like a knife between the ribs, and Ozma finds that his breath has caught in his throat. She nuzzles back in against him, and he thinks perhaps he'll just stay here. Perhaps he'll just sleep sitting up, holding her.
But, no, it is getting cold and it is getting late. The bedroll is all set up. They will have more walking to do tomorrow. ]
Salem. Will you come to bed?
[ His tone is soft and low, and he shifts carefully so as not to jostle her overmuch. He begins to rise with his arm steady around her, gently urging her up. His legs are ringing numb and prickly with disuse, but he doesn't want to stumble and jolt her. She is so sweet and soft like this, more open in sleep than anyone he's ever seen. There's a trust to it that could stop his breath. ]
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Now that she’s standing, and marginally more awake, Salem responds: ]
Mm, yes, sorry — I must have fallen asleep. [ She chuckles softly at herself. ] It’s been quite a long day. Bed sounds — bed sounds nice.
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[ He is happy to keep a steadying arm around her, keep her tucked to his side, as he guides them back past the cooling firepit and to the assembled bed. At least the ground isn't terribly hard, here, on the thick bed of grass. She should be warm enough in his blankets, and she'll have his pack and spare clothes for a pillow.
It's turned cool enough that he may regret that, but, well. He has his magic, and she has had a more difficult day than him. ]
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But that’s your bed. And you’ll be cold without it. Where will you sleep?
[ Certainly not in the grass. Ozma had to do twice the fighting she did — he had to overpower her father and a larger army. This day has been exhausting for Salem, but she can only assume Ozma is also very tired. ]
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cw nudity and light nsfw
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