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Four months they had been apart, starting in the spring and ending at last in the heart of summer. Four months of correspondence between the palace and the eastern front where Striga led Styria's army in pressing back a Hungarian incursion. Four months of Morana waiting anxiously for letters, always wondering if the next one would be the last one, the last she would ever hear from her wife. Morana would reluctantly admit that she never felt closer to human -to mortal- than when Striga was too far from her side. But now, standing on the steps of the palace in front of its grand double doors bathed in torchlight on this balmy summer night, Morana waits and feels alight with an energy that would shame god. She is untouchable, now that her love is nearly home.
The great gate at the far end of the courtyard yawns open, the wrought iron bars pulled up by chains and gears to make way for Styria's returning forces. Morana refuses to suppress the swell of pride at the sight of them, Striga riding at the front in all her brutal elegance, so quietly proud in the way she carries herself even in the saddle. Morana feels the moment Striga meets her eyes across the steadily closing distance between them, and it feels like someone shocked her. But it's so good. Morana can't wait until those eyes are heavy on her, to be the absolute center of their focus.
Though she knows it doesn't show, Striga is elated to be home again. She had accepted long ago that she had been born and bred to wage war, to win them, but coming home is what she lives for. The matter never felt truly finished until she was back under a familiar sky and in her own bed. Better still to have both of those to share with her loving wife. Welsh often said there was something special about coming home when you knew someone was waiting for you, and she had been so right. Knowing Morana was here, that all the struggle Striga endured was for her sake and the sake of her safety, made it all worth it, and made coming home the greatest prize she could ever win. Just seeing her now, feeling those eyes on her is cause for joy, and if it weren't for Striga's impeccable discipline it would have escaped as a great shout of elation. But she is disciplined, and won't even dismount from her horse until she sees Morana starting down the palace steps to meet her.
But she is quick and graceful to do it once it feels right, with just a rush of air and a light rattle of barding. Even Striga's boots don't make a sound until she is striding forward, her eager steps a far more faithful gauge of her need than her typically level expression. But once Morana is in reach, oh, once Striga can put arms around her she does just that, sweeping up the smaller woman and pulling Morana impossibly close. Now all that separates them is leather and cloth, and for a moment even that feels much too far. So she imbibes in Morana in other ways, through the scent of jasmine and the silken softness of hair beneath her cheek, through the soft give of her wife's body beneath the pressure of her great embrace.
"Welcome home, my love." Morana has to rasp because there is simply no room to pull in enough air to speak louder.
"Dorohyy ," Striga rumbles, managing to squeeze just a little tighter. "I missed you so."
"And I you." Morana nuzzles into her wife's chest. When she pushes gently against her, Striga takes it as a request for release and complies. Now Morana looks up at her, treated to the sight of her wife's stalwart countenance crack into a painfully soft smile as one big hand rises to cup Morana's face. She leans into it happily. "Come, let us retire."
"Gladly."
They walk arm in arm through the palace with no apparent hurry, perfectly content now that they are together again. At one point Striga tugs off one of her hefty leather gloves so she might hold Morana's bare hand, so that could have even that much skin-to-skin contact.
"Where are Carmilla and Lenore? They're usually with you when I return with the troops." Striga asks casually, like it doesn't really matter and she's only curious, which is mostly true.
"I simply asked that they let me greet you alone."
Striga smirks. "You wanted me to yourself."
"Naturally."
She chuckles. "I'm sure Carmilla rolled her eyes at your request."
"Of course she did." Morana sighs. "But I thought you would appreciate our privacy as well."
"I certainly do." She squeezes Morana's hand before bringing it to her lips for a kiss. She smiles enough to show fangs when Morana returns the gesture in equal measure. "Is it safe to assume you have made plans for us?"
"It would be." Morana's smile is now comfortably smug. "A hot bath should be waiting for you in our room by now."
Striga makes a pleasured rumbled, then cocks a sable brow. "Do I smell that bad?"
"...I wasn't going to say anything."
"My dear, you of all people should tell me when I stink."
"I don't think you stink," Morana laughs into her free hand. "You smell like you to me, but you certainly smell dirty."
"Ah." Striga concedes, even if she doesn't quite see the difference. "So a bath, then. And what for us after?"
"Now that you are home it is my intention that you be spoiled." Morana says matter-of-factly, with a punctuating nod. "In fact, I plan to wash you myself so you may properly relax."
"Purely for the sake of my luxury, of course."
"Of course." Morana casts her a playful look. "After, you will be put to bed and fed a meal befitting a Sister of Styria."
"Oh? And what about your rule against eating in bed?"
"This is a special occasion, so I shall compromise this once."
"Your grace knows no bounds, wife." Striga kisses her hand again. "I do not deserve you."
"You deserve me and everything I can give you. Not just because I love you, but because it is the least you have earned for all you give to see Styria safe."
"I would give all I am for you, dorohyy."
"Then give me your burdens and wishes, habibti, that you may have one night free of labor or want."
Striga seems to weigh that for a moment, the two of them walking in silence along a stretch of quiet corridor, and then she smiles with a soft exhale. "I cannot say no to you."
"I know." She agrees with no small amount of satisfaction. "But, surely this has not been proven to your detriment?"
"Never." But if it ever is, Striga knows she would forgive it without question.
Striga and Morana had been granted joint chambers after their marriage, a much smaller domicile than their individual chambers and sparsely furnished, but with the intent that they focus on one another and not work or other matters. There is still a wardrobe, a table for two, a spacious and comfortable bed, and a hearth with ample seating with rugs and pillows aplenty. Near one side of the bed is a set of shelves full of books that Morana made a point to rotate for new ones every few months, and on the other side is the large bath tub now full of steaming water and waiting to be enjoyed.
"Sit," Morana says as they step inside and she pushes the door closed. "I will help you undress."
No fuss, no argument, Striga simply obeys, though she unclasps her cloak to drape across the table before pulling out a chair. She tugs off her other glove as well, setting them both atop the doffed cloak. Morana comes to kneel before her then, stirring what Striga has always deemed complicated feelings as she starts to unbuckle Striga's greaves. Morana is nobility, sophisticated, she should not be doing a servant's work like this, certainly not for her whose bloodline has always been and would ever be the salt of the earth. Seeing Morana dirtying her hands and silk finery in servitude felt wrong somehow, regardless of her willingness to do it.
Of course, when Striga voiced these feelings, Morana had a flawlessly profound response. "Yes," she had said with a smile, "I am nobility, but you are my wife. If I cannot humble myself to serve you in equal measure that I serve a crown, I am fit to serve neither."
Striga knows there have been many moments where she found herself falling in love with Morana all over again, and that had been one of them.
But all those thoughts are behind her when Morana manages her boots off, and the relief of that pounding pressure washes her mind clean of everything else for a moment. Her head tips back with a groan as she flexes her toes hard, little joints popping, for the first time in what felt like weeks.
"Better?" Morana asks with a little laugh.
"Tremendously." Then Striga's chin drops to her chest, letting her watch Morana rise to her feet and take her boots to another corner of the room. When she returns, Morana extends a hand and Striga readily takes it, letting herself be gently pulled out of the chair.
"Now for the rest." Morana sighs happily, deft fingers immediately curling about the buckle of brass at Striga's waist. Morana watches her as Striga's hands move around her, watching her undo the clasps of her bracers and slip out of the raven pauldron on her shoulder. If Striga tried to divest herself of anything else, Morana meant to stop her, but shows a pleased smirk when Striga stops with that.
Piece by piece Striga is stripped bare, Morana taking little, subtle moments to run her hands over cool skin and planes of musculature cast in the glow of lightning glass. Oh, how she had missed Striga's body; the silvery skin so smooth, the furrows and angles of her physique, the impossible darkness and wildness of her hair, and the way it all fit so perfectly in contrast to her own frame. Seeing it all on display, being able to touch Striga freely and truly appreciate everything she is, would surely steal Morana's breath if she still needed it.
"I am always gladdened to see you home intact." Morana smooths her hands over Striga's broad, soft stomach with obvious admiration.
Striga chuckles. "I am a fine warrior, my love, but not so fine as to avoid all harm. I simply make a point to recover before I return."
"Why, dear? Do you not wish for me to care for you?"
"I do not wish for you to worry." Because some of Striga's wounds were truly egregious, even for her, and the last thing she ever wanted was to subject Morana to the sight of them. "And you care for me quite well as it is." Morana's resulting pout is endearing, and she does her best to chase it away with a tender brush of her finger's against Morana's cheek.
"Into the bath with you, stubborn thing." Morana feigns indignation with a gentle push against Striga's broad chest, which only serves to make Striga laugh.
The bathwater is perfectly hot, drawing a luxuriating rumble out of Striga as she sinks into it. As the waterline reaches her shoulders she can feel Morana's hands in her hair, pulling it back and keeping it out of the water for the moment. Striga knows this routine; Morana will want to comb it out first, than wash it, then probably twist it up so it's out of the way. Striga would admit it is one of her favorite parts, feeling those deft hands and dainty talons gently scratching and massaging her scalp. More than once it had been enough to put her to sleep.
Morana will gather up Striga's clothes first, depositing the small pile in the same corner as her boots and greaves, meaning for it all to be collected by a servant for laundering. From there she picks up a chair from the table to position near the tub, not yet sitting down until Morana tugs out the small tray of toiletries kept beneath it. Soap, clean cloths, oils, brushes and combs are neatly arranged for ease of access. Morana sits at last with the tray in her lap, and she wastes no time in gathering up the great length of Striga's hair to begin.
Just as intended, Striga relaxes into it, lets herself drift for as long as she dares. She easily shoulders and mostly ignores the tugging on her scalp, Morana encountering a number of snags and knots that she is careful to unravel.
"On my damned soul, you have the most beautiful but unruly hair in the world."
Striga laughs lazily, the water splashing lightly as she shifts. "Yet you still insist on playing with it."
"Good grooming is hardly what I would call playing." Morana huffs, a sound of exertion as she tames another tangle.
Striga buzzes her lips, dismissive of the distinction. "Still, for someone who chooses such a labor, you think you would whine less."
"I am not whining."
"Of course not." Striga teases gently.
Behind her, Morana scowls. "I could save us both a mote of grief by sheering it off entirely."
"Please, dorohyy, you would cry about it more than I would."
That scowl deepens, because Morana knows that is truer than she'll ever admit. Then she concedes with a tight-jawed "You are so very fortunate that I adore you."
"Indeed I am."
Morana feels her wife's sincerity and it soothes her, not that she had been genuinely bristled by the back-and-forth. "Wet your hair for me, love."
Striga nods and complies, gathering her hair into one fist to keep it orderly while she dips beneath the water. Only a few seconds pass before she emerges, giving her long mane a solid twist to wring out the excess before resuming her previous position, now lounging a little deeper so her head can rest against the lip of the tub while her hair tumbles free over it.
Morana combs through it one last time to ensure the ease of her task before taking one of the folded cloths on the tray and dipping it into the water. She cleans behind Striga's ears first, grinning at the grunt of surprised disapproval -Striga had sensitive ears like any other vampire, but had never gotten into the habit of doing it herself and begrudged someone else to do it for her, even Morana. But it still needed to be done. From there she will take modest handfuls of tresses to pull the cloth along, lifting any dirt and oil as it goes. Slow and steady, next to no tension in her grip, as only gentle care would do. Striga starts to purr softly after but a few seconds.
"Would you sing for me, love? I have missed it."
Of course Morana couldn't possibly say no. She had never considered herself a particularly gifted singer, but it still brought Striga pleasure of some kind. Morana had made an effort to practice more, especially whenever Striga was away since she wasn't around to hear Morana's mistakes. Her wife's favorites were the folk songs from Morana's homeland, most of which she could understand with little trouble. Her still working hands fall into the rhythm of the song, both tasks blending seamlessly until she doesn't have to think about either one. Striga feels her consciousness dipping up and down as comfort courses through her, all her senses soothed, but she makes a conscious effort not to fall asleep. Now that she is home she wants to be here, to be present, but it is a struggle.
Once Morana is confident in the cleanliness of her wife's hair, she sets the cloth aside for later and takes up a bottle of oil. The fragrance of cedar and roses spills from the open bottle as she pours a healthy helping onto her hands, then rubs them together to spread it evenly between them. With hooked fingers she sifts through Striga's hair, spreading the oil from roots to tips. When her hands feel dry and Striga's hair feels painfully soft, she takes up the comb once more, this time with the intent of bringing it all together to braid. She swears she can hear Striga snoring ever so quietly, smiling to herself as she weaves tresses together in well practiced motions. Once she reaches the end she starts to twist the long plait onto itself, until the tension allows it to coil naturally against the back Striga's head. Morana tucks the end into the neat bun, knowing it will hold until Striga has finished bathing at the very least.
She waits a moment, watching, and when it is more than clear that Striga has dozed off, Morana leans in close. Gently nuzzling her wife's cheek she whispers, "Rouse yourself love, just a little longer now before I put you to bed."
Striga takes an abrupt breath, stirring and turning into her wife's touch almost too quickly. "I'm awake."
"Of course you are." Morana hums and kisses her temple. "Sit up so I can wash you."
Striga nods with a grunt, then grinds out another, longer one as she stretches her arms high above her head, flexing every muscle she can. Behind her, Morana is licking her lips while she plucks the bar of soap off the tray and tucks it into the cloth she was using before.
Just as with Striga's hair, Morana takes her time with her wife's beautiful body. She starts at Striga's neck and shoulders, following the slopes of muscles and tendons, the divots of collar bones. She takes to each powerful arm individually, working down to the fingers where she kisses Striga's palm and each fingertip before rubbing them down with the now soapy cloth. After rinsing, Striga rises to her knees in the tub to give Morana access to her back and chest, lifting her arms to put her hands behind her head so no part of her is out of reach. She sees the way Morana looks at her, almost ogling, and quietly revels in it. She knows in the way she touches her, lingering in certain places -her breasts, her stomach, the heavy planes of muscles over her shoulder blades- that Morana is doing so much more than just washing her; Morana is loving her with her hands. It's a form of affection Striga had never really experienced before taking Morana to her side, and it's something she would sunder the whole of the world in order to keep.
Morana gives the same devoted attention to Striga's trunk and legs, pressing one last kiss in the furrow at the small of her back, a mark of completion, before going to fetch a towel for her. Just as she returns and begins patting Striga down, the servants arrive with their dinner. Morana appears particularly pleased at the perfect timing, but is otherwise unfazed in the focus around her current task. The servants are quick to make their delivery and collect Striga's clothes before bowing and taking their leave.
"Shall I fetch you something to wear?"
Striga rumbles contentedly. "We are alone, and no longer expecting visitors, so there is no need."
Morana gives a beaming smile. "Very well. To bed with you, then. I'm going to change."
Striga is more than happy to shuffle over to the bed, suddenly feeling like she had been waiting for this very moment for months. Discarding the now wet towel on the other chair at the table, Striga climbs up into bed after tugging down the blankets. The sheets feel clean and cool on her still warm skin and it's a delicious shock to her nerves. Her hefty body readily sinks into the mattress and pillows with a rush of air and accompanied by a groan.
"Comfortable?" Morana giggles from the wardrobe, only to be answered by another, albeit muffled groan. "Don't fall asleep, you must eat first."
"But beds are for sleeping." Striga argues lazily. "I'm already so tired...so relaxed, I don't have the strength to feed myself."
"Then I shall feed you, dear heart."
Striga manages to lift her head, meaning to check her wife's face for sincerity since it wasn't apparent in her voice. Instead her focus gets lost in the image of Morana's bare body, and now she is very much wide awake and at attention. They could be married for a thousand years and Striga knows she will never tire of seeing the immaculate vision that is her wife. She watches Morana rummage through the wardrobe, making a stuttering sort of noise in her throat when she sees Morana produce her nightgown.
"Do you really need it?" Striga finally works out.
Morana smiles knowingly. "No, I don't suppose I do." She puts the garment back and closes the wardrobe. "Now make room, I'm bringing food."
First Morana brings the two cups and pitcher of blood the servants left, Striga thinking to brace the pitcher with a pair of plump pillows, then returns to the table to fetch the tray that Striga is happy to see laden with a fine assortment of cured meats and cheese and fruit. Striga holds the tray as Morana climbs into bed, but her face quirks curiously as Morana gestures for her to come close.
"Rest on me, habibti. I said I would feed you and so I shall."
"You don't have to do that." Striga chuckles sheepishly.
"But I wish to. Please. Unless, of course, you do not want me to."
"I didn't say that,"
It takes some patience and clumsy logistics, but eventually they settle. Most of the pillows are piled under and beside Morana and against the headboard, the blood pitcher relocated elsewhere but still in reach. Striga's head is angled into Morana's lap and pillowed on the side by her soft belly, and the tray is resting on a pillow by Striga's shoulder. As promised, Morana plucked choice morsels from the decadent spread to offer up to her wife's waiting mouth, which Striga takes with a certain shy amusement. Not once in her entire life, however long it had been, did she ever think to be in a position to be treated this way.
"How is it, my love?" Morana asks.
"Wonderful." Striga swallows. "But from your hand, divine."
"I'm glad." now she strokes Striga's forehead with the backs of her fingers, earning a kiss to her belly when Striga turns her head. "Is there anything else you desire that I could give you?"
Striga takes a slow, chest filling breath, checking herself as she steadily exhales. Bodily she feels serene, comfortable, blissful even. All the strain of months away and a hard fought war of attrition is little more than a memory that just barely haunts the fringes of her weary frame. Mentally, which is generally more of a challenging assessment, feels a little less defined. Now that she isn't focused on keeping men alive, holding the front line, getting home in one piece, there's a neutral buzzing haze, as there has been since the moment she stepped into the bath -when she finally stopped holding on to the last four months.
Striga feels her heart catch. It had been slow but steady, but now it stutters under the weight of how real it suddenly feels to be here. To be home. Striga has felt this before, but it had been some time since, and part of her hadn't been ready. Her brow furrows and her eyes prick under closed lids.
"Is something wrong, Striga?"
Striga blinks her eyes open, flitting up to meet her wife's gaze through the faint bleariness of impending tears. "No. Not at all, I just," her hands fumble, spreading over her own chest and belly as if in search of something productive to do. "I just got in my own head, I'm sorry."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"No, it isn't important. I'm just...I'm home now."
Morana studies her a moment, then nods as if understanding.
"But there is something you could give me."
"Oh? Well?"
"A proper kiss."
Morana's face flickers with realization: she had yet to kiss her wife! What a scandal! "Of course, my love. Do forgive me for such an egregious oversight."
Already forgiven. Always. Morana's lips are soft and sweet with lingering blood and fruit, and just underneath it is the taste of her that Striga knows. They come apart smiling with the softest pop of separation. Morana hovers millimeters above her, taking in her scent and her joy.
She tucks her chin to kiss Striga's forehead, a lingering thing. "Is there anything else I can give?"
"Can I have your tit in my mouth?" the question is playful, but genuinely hopeful.
Morana laughs, but doesn't say no.
Author's Note: Friend simply asked for some loving wives. Threaten me with a good time! Thanks for reading!