Work Text:
Ahellia exhaled softly, and stood a little straighter, her peridot earrings dangling with the motion.
Her eyes scanned the room, took in the nobles milling about, the elaborate displays of food and drink, the well-lit and decorated hall, and settled on a polished tile on the floor, away from the eyes of others and the potential for accidental eye contact.
There was nothing extraordinary about this party, by her standards; she had been attending banquets like this since she was a child, and many of the faces in the room were in fact familiar, but that did not put her any more at ease for the moment, or pique her interest, this late into the night. She had never struggled with events like this, even enjoyed them, for what they were worth, but sometimes the commotion could get overwhelming, or too much conversation became taxing, and the silky fabric of her lavish garments tightened around her like a sticky web. Standing, indulging, and being flippantly idle was contrary to her nature, and having spent hours already in polite celebration was quickly extinguishing her flame.
The murmur of the crowd was constant, difficult to ignore, and the gentle yet prominent sound of the harp and strings from the band in the corner was grating on her ears, and it made her almost wish for the sound of battle, for the ring of clashing swords or the rush of an arrow past her ears. She wished for the weight of her quiver on her back, the smell of leather and chainmail, constant companions throughout horror and danger, which felt far more familiar than these lavish pleasantries which were, admittedly, her true birthright. She fought the urge to grimace.
Ahellia began counting again, her fingers lifting and falling in sequence at her side, a rhythm of habitual repetition adopted in her youth, as she breathed in measure, did her best to keep her body relaxed and stationary.
Stationary should be easy. Stationary was normal. There was no task to undertake here, no responsibility on her shoulders. She was meant to be having fun, to be pleasant and laughing like the others, to simply enjoy the luxuries afforded here, the downtime, and the lack of danger. She did have fun earlier, for what it was worth, but somewhere along the way that fun began to fade, and a familiar vigilance crowded her senses.
She counted, as she had thousands of times before, and would another thousand times. She counted, quickly, her fingertips barely having time to touch properly before shifting again, marking another tally. She counted. One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four—
Warm fingers closed around her own, gentle, familiar, slightly calloused. Findral pulled her a little closer, and Ahellia followed, allowed their fingers to intertwine, their shoulders to touch.
“Everything alright?” he said softly, leaning down for her to hear him more directly. His voice was soothing, charming as always, in an entirely sincere way, and it made the grimace tugging at the corners of her lips retreat.
“I’m alright,” she replied, nodding. She squeezed his hand. “Just feeling a little…”
“Restless?” he assumed.
Another nod. She scanned the room again, making note of the handful of couples on the dance floor, the laughter from a group of individuals across the way, the servants passing by with trays of sparkling wines. She recounted the people she had spoken with tonight, some of them neighbors, others acquaintances through her time as a Ranger, some friends of friends. There was nothing wrong here, and no one had slighted her or made her feel uncomfortable, yet she felt uncomfortable anyway, felt a rising fever in her chest which she could only endure so long. That was more than a little frustrating, especially now, when peace had taken hold the last few years, and elegant parties and pleasantries had replaced war and suffering.
Findral could sympathize with her plight, although he did not relate to it. He knew she had a preference for action, that she could sometimes struggle with the mere concept of relaxation, and always had. It was why she paced around the room during their frequent Thalassian lessons, why she preferred to walk the city instead of taking a carriage or any other mount. It was why she tossed and turned the few times they had shared a bed thus far, and why her eyes rarely stayed fixed on one target, instead considered her surroundings with scrutiny.
She was always on the move, if not in body, then in spirit, in mind, but over the months since they began courting, he had learned to stop her momentum, or at least, slow it to a more comfortable speed, for her benefit. He had learned to quell that sense of urgency, at least a little, and diligently worked to encourage mastery over it, so that one day, she perhaps would no longer bear the burden of proactivity.
He lowered his glass of wine on the little table at his side, and reached across to brush her beautiful hair back from her neck with gentle fingers. “Let’s step out into the garden, hm? It’s getting a little stuffy in here. And it’s not just the hot air exhumed by our companions.”
Ahellia smiled a little, as she always did at his cheek, and sighed softly. “Yes,” she agreed.
She adjusted her grasp on his hand, held it firmly, securely, and began moving forward through the mild crowd, weaving between distracted pairs and diligent servants. Findral followed at an automatic pace, matching her stride, circumventing obstacles as efficiently as she did. He had learned to embody some of her grace over time, to sharpen his instinct under her tutelage, though it was, thankfully, used for mundane circumstances such as this, or simple hunts out in the woods; they had both seen and felt war, (Ahellia more than him) and he was not keen on the prospect of experiencing more, even if he was slowly becoming better equipped for it in her company.
A few moments, and they were out of the banquet hall, and stepping into the moonlit garden. Lanterns illuminated the spiral pathways, lined with flower bushes and topiaries, and the glow of Silvermoon was visible in the night sky, hovering over the whitestone garden walls. It wasn’t much cooler out here; the nights were still warm this time of year, but a soft breeze blew, ruffled the sheer drapery on Ahellia’s shoulders, blew Findral’s bangs from his eyes.
Ahellia’s posture relaxed marginally, out here in the garden. The sounds of the party still echoed in the air, but they were muffled here, soft, fading into the background and harmonizing with the regular nocturnal sounds of the city. They were not alone out here either; she could see a couple in the distance, badly hid behind sculpted topiaries, whispering, giggling, kissing, and an older lord, sipping on a drink and resting on a nearby bench, but neither party would disturb, and neither party was of note.
It was peaceful enough for Ahellia to consider her own thoughts, the sensations in her body, and to hear and feel her own partner better, as Findral took his place at her side once more, still joined at the hand, and regarded her studiously, taking in the flush of her cheeks, the crease in her brow, not signifying obvious distress to a passerby, but familiar enough to him to convey her slow-receding unease.
She glanced up at his face to gauge his temperament (calm, fond, as always), then down at his shoulders, admiring the stars embroidered on his tunic, the moons on his gilded clasps. Her gaze rested there, as his thumb rubbed the back of her hand in smooth circles, quelling the itch in her fingers that called for counting.
“Silver suits you,” she said earnestly, after a few moments of silence, which he did not feel necessary to break; he was patient, intuitive, and understood the value of silence, and allowing her to do things in her own time. He had no trouble following her lead; he would follow her whenever and wherever.
“Green suits you,” he replied at her compliment, and smiled a little at the way her eyes flickered up to meet his.
Another beat of silence, but Ahellia relaxed a little more. She deigned him a bout of eye contact, somewhat intense, sincere, relaying her gratitude for his support once more. He answered with steady reciprocity, as he often did. Ahellia was a woman of few words, where the heart was concerned. But reading her body always expressed everything one needed to know, and he had become quite good at that. Good enough to know that she would not draw away if he cupped her cheek now, and leaned in for a kiss.
He did just so.
Her arms wound around his sides, her fingers spread against his back. She met his lips with tenderness, a sense of ease that spoke of their afternoons in the forest, the familiarity of fletching arrows, the gathering of herbs. He tasted sweet, the rich alcohol still lingering on his tongue from minutes ago, and she let herself disappear into it.
It had taken some time for her to gain the confidence to do something like this. Public displays of affection had been overwhelming for her at first, had been in all her romantic pursuits, and though they still made her cheeks grow hot with blush, she had learned to stop feeling imaginary eyes on her and to relish in the intimacy they shared, the connection which had developed so slowly yet instantaneously, and suited her more than any other in the world.
Besides, the garden was mostly empty, and she needed comfort. His body against hers offered it, the familiarity of his touch reminding her of the merits of idleness, of simple celebration. She could come to enjoy the party again, she knew. Just a little while out here, together, and the rest of the night would slip by easily.
Findral broke the kiss, only to place one on her forehead instead, and then pull her closer until her cheek rested on his shoulder. “I hear tell of an archery competition a week from now,” he muttered, knowing it would pique her interest.
“Competition?” she scoffed quietly, raising a brow, though he could not see it. “Hosted by who?”
“I believe Halthenis came up with the idea, but Zandine is the facilitator.”
“I’d imagine a bet is involved there somewhere,” Ahellia replied. The instructors in Farstrider Square often engaged in little wagers, particularly when boredom took hold. She imagined it did so frequently, now that the wars had passed.
“Most likely. Will you participate?” he wondered.
Ahellia found herself smiling a little at the idea. She drew back to look up at him. “It would hardly be fair, wouldn’t it?”
She had not entered many contests, but with aim like hers, she had never lost one before. She did not feel the need to flex her ability though; she had done her family name proud with her actions over the years, her diligent service and steady hand. There was no glory to be found in a simple competition which she had not already earned out in the world. And it would probably discourage greener rangers, if she got involved.
“Fair? Perhaps not. But making it unfair could be just as entertaining,” Findral suggested, a devilish spark in his eye.
Ahellia’s own eyes lit up in delight. It was rare that she engaged in impishness, but there was a little room for it here and there, especially now that she was learning to appreciate leisure time more. “Are you suggesting I throw the competition?” she asked.
He smiled, his charming dimples on full display. “Naturally I’m not suggesting anything of the sort; it would be very unethical.”
“Unethical indeed,” Ahellia mused. “But the perfect prank, truly.”
“Who would ever bet against you?”
“Certainly not Halthenis.”
“And when you don’t come out on top, Zandine will surely relish in her victory.”
“She always does like to side with the underdogs.”
Findral hummed in agreement; he’d seen the instructor’s fervor when it came to supporting recruits and green rangers. Her sweet disposition and encouraging attitude were often accompanied by enthusiasm and the occasional boast. Halthenis had a much more stinging idea of encouragement, and very much believed in the idea of trial by fire, and, admittedly, could be prideful or boasting. A victory for Zandine would surely grate on him, and be most entertaining.
Findral waited expectantly for Ahellia to decide her course of action, if she was feeling up to such a silly idea. Really, he was just trying to settle her nerves, keep her thoughts away from whatever was bothering her, but it would be a pleasure to see if she agreed to it.
She did not take much time to decide; it sounded fun, all things considered. Adding a loss to her tally would not mean much, given her historic track record of victories. She doubted anyone would believe she really lost anyway, especially to amateurs or those of lesser rank. The ensuing discourse would be harmless and brighten more than one person’s afternoon, she was sure, once the story spread around. The Ranger-General might even get a laugh out of it, if he ever caught wind of it. Normally, these sorts of things happened under Halduron’s nose, but he had been known to place a bet or two himself in the past, especially if the wagers proved interesting.
“I think we’ll have to find out the time and place of this little competition,” Ahellia said eventually, her gaze drifting to the side, already planning on how she would concoct her false defeat. She would have to tell Soranar all about it as well, in her next letter to him.
“Wonderful. Should we head back inside, then? Gather intelligence?” Findral asked, rubbing her back reassuringly. He seemed pleased with her answer.
She considered that, focused on his familiar touch, his soothing presence, and weighed it against the commotion of the banquet hall in her head, not unpleasant, but not necessarily something she was keen to return to.
“…Soon,” Ahellia replied, knowing he would not fault her for wanting a few more minutes of privacy, of the night air and dimmed lights.
He never did mind, always seemed content to follow her lead. He invited her lead, had from the start, when he asked her to be his Thalassian instructor. He had taken to the language quickly, almost as quickly as he had taken to her. Things moved slowly between them, and did still, but there was no rush; they knew where the long road was heading, and how much they cherished this time together, the light they brought to each other’s lives.
Just the thought of it made her relax that much more, and press her face to his chest again, thankful for the opportunity to rest there.
“Soon,” Findral agreed, at ease, feeling warm and satisfied with the way she pressed herself against him, and rested his head on hers, admired the shining stars in the night sky.
