[ 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. ]
[ The stern look is very sweet, but not terribly intimidating. He finds himself smiling back at her, then realizes that is perhaps not the reaction she's looking for. ]
Really, my— Salem. [ A stumble as he catches the more formal address and corrects himself. He is tired; the relief of taking off the armor has finally given way to a familiar whole-body ache. ] It is only one night. I don't mind.
[ Salem does her best to be stern and forceful, and Ozma just smiles at her? Rude! Salem can’t be mad, though — not when Ozma calls her my Salem. She knows it’s a slip of the tongue, a combination of her given name and her former title, but still. It’s...nice, in a way Salem doesn’t know how to describe, to be called my Salem. It makes her feel very warm inside. ]
You’ll be cold.
[ But what Salem means is: stay close to me. The bedroll, she knows, cannot hold a candle to being held. It is just a canvas and a blanket. It is not a person. Now that Salem knows what it’s like to fall asleep close to someone, she doesn’t want to go back to blankets and solitude. Not yet.
Still, she knows they’ve only just met, and in the stories, sleeping together is what people do when they love each other. Salem does not think of herself as a thing to be loved, nor does she know how to describe what she feels for Ozma beyond a profoundly deep gratitude. ]
You should have some of the blanket, at least. [ Perhaps they can unfurl it, spread it out wide. ]
[ He falters. She is offering that he share her bed, without a hint of hesitation or embarrassment. Without a shadow of the guarded concern that she should by all rights afford him. He is a traveling warrior. Perhaps he is one of some renown, but even so: he is the stranger who killed her father and took her away into the night with him.
Ozma knows full well the importance, among nobility, of a lady's virtue. He knows that her reputation will come to not insignificant harm simply by spending a night unaccounted in the woods with a soldier. Even if she doesn't seem to care much for reputation.
The pause hangs long. He is revisiting the way she tucked herself against his chest, and trying to puzzle out what she expects of him next. She is so beautiful— he would give her anything she wanted of him, and eagerly. But perhaps that is not what is being asked. ]
You propose that we share?
[ He has to be sure. He really does not want to overstep and worry her; he would like her first night of freedom to be a good one. ]
[ 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. ]
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no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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?
no subject
[ 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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[ The stern look is very sweet, but not terribly intimidating. He finds himself smiling back at her, then realizes that is perhaps not the reaction she's looking for. ]
Really, my— Salem. [ A stumble as he catches the more formal address and corrects himself. He is tired; the relief of taking off the armor has finally given way to a familiar whole-body ache. ] It is only one night. I don't mind.
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You’ll be cold.
[ But what Salem means is: stay close to me. The bedroll, she knows, cannot hold a candle to being held. It is just a canvas and a blanket. It is not a person. Now that Salem knows what it’s like to fall asleep close to someone, she doesn’t want to go back to blankets and solitude. Not yet.
Still, she knows they’ve only just met, and in the stories, sleeping together is what people do when they love each other. Salem does not think of herself as a thing to be loved, nor does she know how to describe what she feels for Ozma beyond a profoundly deep gratitude. ]
You should have some of the blanket, at least. [ Perhaps they can unfurl it, spread it out wide. ]
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[ He falters. She is offering that he share her bed, without a hint of hesitation or embarrassment. Without a shadow of the guarded concern that she should by all rights afford him. He is a traveling warrior. Perhaps he is one of some renown, but even so: he is the stranger who killed her father and took her away into the night with him.
Ozma knows full well the importance, among nobility, of a lady's virtue. He knows that her reputation will come to not insignificant harm simply by spending a night unaccounted in the woods with a soldier. Even if she doesn't seem to care much for reputation.
The pause hangs long. He is revisiting the way she tucked herself against his chest, and trying to puzzle out what she expects of him next. She is so beautiful— he would give her anything she wanted of him, and eagerly. But perhaps that is not what is being asked. ]
You propose that we share?
[ He has to be sure. He really does not want to overstep and worry her; he would like her first night of freedom to be a good one. ]
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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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cw nudity and light nsfw
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