Work Text:
But, despite what he is,
And the myth of fame and stature,
I will travel peaks and hills for you,
And open up windows on you,
And carry on, hoping that some afternoon,
I’d see you on the horizon
ولكنْ .. على الرغم مما هُوَ
وأُسطورةِ الجَاهِ والمُسْتَوَى
أَجُوبُ عليكِ الذُرى والتلالْ
وأفتحُ عنكِ
عُيُونَ الكُوى
وأمشي .. لعلّي ذاتَ زوالْ
أراكِ ، على شُقْرةِ المُلْتَوى
***
Nestled between the steadfast peaks of the Pamir mountains to the east and far-reaching, desolate plains to the west, lies the steppe city of Samarkand. From here, you can travel further southwest and, through Bukhara, Merv and the desert beyond, eventually happen upon the seat of the Abbasid Caliphate in Baghdad. Towards the northeast, hidden in the mists beyond the rocky ridges and pearly snow-caps, await the steppes and the faraway cities of China.
Asami has never gone so far to see the bountiful, grassy fields around the city turn to a dusty wasteland or jagged mountain. She’s read about those places plenty, though.
All day, she sits among books: travelogues, tragedies, romantic poems and academic codices on astrology and navigation. On slow days, she leafs through the pages; though surely, simply being around all this leatherbound wisdom, certain knowledge must stay with her by sheer osmosis.
Her bookshop is decently sized, nestled between a weaver and a merchant that deals in glassware. It’s on the edge of the artisanal quarter, where the houses are old and built into the city wall. The street out front is busy with people and pack animals, moving like ants, in a lazy crawl towards the Tashkent Gate. There are swindlers and pickpockets among them, and playing children, as well as old men who smoke pipes in the shade on the steps of the agiary.
Today is a slow day. She helps a man find a manuscript on Islamic jurisprudence, after which a woman enters requesting a book about grammar and literary techniques. By midday, a party of Tibetan messengers pass through, only to ask the way to the Ambassador’s Hall in broken Sogdian—Asami can’t blame them. The winding, narrow streets of the city can be confusing enough to make even an experienced navigator lose their bearings.
Then there are those that come in only to trace the spines and scrolls, to kill time until they step out in the sweltering sun again, on their way to one clandestine meeting place or another. Asami sits on her pillow, drinking her tea demurely as she watches them.
Foreign envoys and spies are never far in this city, easily hidden by the throng of merchants and mercenaries. For Asami, it has become somewhat of a game to find out which is which.
This one, she recognizes.
Not the tallest, but broad-shouldered and with a familiar slant to her hips as she peruses the shelves. Too rough around the edges to be an emissary, though; the bottom edge of her tunic is tattered and a fine layer dust clings to the fabric.
She has all the trappings of a caravan trader. She wears a sash of rich blue silk over her plain white caftan, that shows the subtle outline of a dagger hidden in its folds. Her left hand is steady on the leather satchel that hangs from her intricately woven belt.
In the other, she holds a book, which she waves at Asami. “The Diwan of Abu Nuwas,” she reads off the cover, “is this any good?”
Korra looks good even after being on the road, her short hair windswept and her eyes as bright as they always are, in her dreams.
“Abu Nuwas is a phenomenal writer, although I doubt that his subject matter will be very suited to your tastes,” Asami answers plainly. Korra’s white teeth are offset by her dark skin when she grins widely.
“You should know, it’s a dangerous endeavour to underestimate me.”
Asami shoots her a smirk in return. “As long as you don’t blame me when the analogies go over your head.”
Korra snorts. “I’ll become poetic master and no one on this side of the Jayhun river will be safe from my virtuosity, just you wait and see,” she fires back, her chest puffed. “Now, how much do I owe you?”
“Two dinar,” Asami replies, making a show of sizing the other girl up. “But for you I could do fifteen dirham.”
It seems that this is still too high for Korra, who gets a familiar gleam in her eye. She sidles up to Asami and tells her in a sweet voice: “Have I ever told you, ya hayati, that the House of Wisdom does not hold a candle your collection?”
Asami smiles, nudging her with her elbow. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Korra.”
“Now, that just isn’t true,” Korra replies, crossing her arms smugly. “Flattery got me into your good graces, I seem to recall; and then into your garden, and then into your private rooms, into your bed—”
“That’s quite enough,” Asami cuts her off, helpless against the way her face heats up.
Korra likes to tease her about it, but to Asami their first encounter will always be something special, even though it should be considered scandalous by all accounts.
How she wound up in her shop, Asami still doesn’t know, but she’d come in one afternoon and she’d annoyed Asami to no end, hellbent as she was on purchasing a beautiful, illustrated edition of ‘Rustam’s Seven Labours’ for an unacceptable fraction of the price.
Korra had bargained with her throughout the day, staying even as Asami had closed up. Allowing the trader to stay for dinner would’ve negatively impacted the price, of course, but all that had quickly gone out of the window once Korra suggested a game of shatranj—the boardgame popular amongst Abbasid courtiers and Persian merchants—the winner takes all.
Of course, that had been a challenge Asami just couldn’t pass up.
Even when the loaded glances Korra kept sending her over the board had her blundering two pawns and one of her chariots, Asami had been able to strategically place her elephants in the centre of the board, mounting the pressure on Korra’s king.
During the game, their conversation had gradually moved beyond boasting about their moves and goading each other into traps, towards something more sincere, and strangely intimate. Korra told her stories about her birthplace, a small village close to where the black river springs forth from the mountains, where it still runs slender and blue.
Asami did what she never does and spoke quietly about her childhood with her father, his academic career and the ridiculous collection of books that he’d left her. It felt right to mention; after all, he was the one who taught her how to play.
Surrounded by the solitude of the garden, it felt like they were the only ones on Earth.
Eventually, most pieces had been taken off the board, yet there was still no clear winner in sight. Taken by the game and the conversation, neither of them had noticed the dark clouds gathering overhead and the wind picking up, heralding a summer storm.
They’d gotten drenched in the several dozen seconds it took to gather up the board and all the pieces—Korra looking magnetic with her dark hair sticking to her forehead, her eyes screwed shut and grinning up against the battering rain. Scintillating was the strong, warm grip of her hand in Asami’s, as she’d pulled her along to shelter.
The memory warms her from the inside out. “Ten dirham, that’s the lowest I’ll go,” Asami states.
The other girl hesitates, considering it, although that might just be for show. Korra is an experienced trader and an even better haggler, Asami knows from all the times they’d braved the markets together. Although when it comes to her books, Korra is usually only in it for the challenge.
So, when she hums noncommittally and says: “Perhaps we ought to barter for it,” Asami isn’t entirely surprised.
“Come on,” she tells Korra with a knowing smile, like that very first time. “Let’s discuss this further in the garden.”
It’s quite a relief to be out of the stuffy shop.
The square courtyard in the back of Asami’s apartments is enclosed by clay brick walls on either side, constituting something of a private sanctuary within the city. The garden is bathed in sunlight, its colours vibrant against the pale clay. In the middle of the garden stands a single poplar tree, with next to it a modest basin of water with a fountain. Colourful wildflowers litter the rest of the space in an undiscernible pattern, and a neat band of white and blue tiles form a path around the grass along all sides.
A hint of sweet smelling smoke wafts through the air, mingling with the fragrant scent of the rosebushes and fruit trees around them. The only sounds are the soft trickle of water and the comforting chirping of the sparrows.
Asami leads Korra to a shaded recess, where they take a seat upon soft pillows.
“So,” she starts, eyeing Korra with some interest.
The other girl’s cerulean eyes are already on her. “Right, my opening offer.” Swift fingers open her satchel and pull out a sleek, black lacquer box. It’s beautifully crafted, adorned with the image of a flowering plum tree in golden yellow.
Korra makes a show of handing it to Asami unceremoniously. “Here, hold onto this for me, would you?” she says and then her hand returns to her satchel, continuing to rummage through it.
She usually brings her back things from other merchants that she knows Asami will like, and it appears this time is no different. Asami has learned to go along with it, having found out after several instances that no amount of resolve can withstand Korra’s need to shower her with gifts.
It’s an unfair exchange, one she’ll be sure to balance. Asami handles the box with care and considers briefly what she’ll use it for. It could keep her paints, or her writing material. Or better yet, it could keep her correspondence with Korra.
“There it is,” Korra exclaims as she finds what she’s looking for and pulls from her bag a jade figurine, just about fitting into the palm of her hand. “My offer for the book, as invaluable as I am sure its contents are, is this gorgeously chiselled stone from the eastern lands,” Korra declares. She holds it up in two hands, almost reverently, for Asami to inspect.
It’s round, rather like a medallion, and sculpted into the face of it is a creature that Asami recognises as a dragon. The milky green curves lend a vicious face to it, with a bearded jaw, bared fangs and a spikey mane. It’s gorgeous; and most likely, worth much more than two dinar.
“I got it for cheap from a Turk at the last caravanserai before Bukhara,” Korra mentions airily. “He obviously didn’t know what he had. So, what do you think? Great, right?”
After many such conversations with Korra, Asami knows how to play this game.
Their game.
“It seems like you’re wasting my time,” Asami tells her, with only a little bite in her tone. “To offer what is no more than a coloured rock in return for this well of knowledge… Some might say it’s insulting.”
Korra laughs, her eyes growing just a hint darker.
“Then, allow me to offer something you might not so easily refuse.” This time, a woollen bag merges from her satchel, its contents softly clinking as she jostles the bag. “I need a rematch, after last time.”
Asami is already up to get a board. “And what makes you think the outcome will be any different?” she teases, nudging Korra’s knee as she walks past.
“I’ve learned a new strategy from Bumi that you’re not ready for,” Korra tells her over her shoulder.
She’s mentioned him once or twice in her letters, Asami remembers. Her friendly, somewhat cooky caravan leader. She quickly finds the board and steps back outside.
“Didn’t you say he used to be a commander in the emir’s army?”
Korra nods, taking the board from Asami and placing it on the ground between them. “He used to be a border guardian in the north, leading an entire garrison in fighting off foreign invaders. But he wanted to see the world, so he left—sold his possessions for 20 camels and half their weight worth of merchandise.”
The pieces she’s brought are simple, cut from sandalwood and painted in red and green respectively. Asami sits back down and helps her set up the board.
“Strategy advice from a commander is not enough to frighten me,” she murmurs. Her fingers brush Korra’s as they both reach for the same piece, the caress making the hairs on Asami’s arm prickle.
Korra appears utterly unfazed. She pulls back and leans her chin on the palm of her hand as she regards Asami intently. “That is not at all my intention,” she says, smirking mischievously. “Your move.”
Asami narrows her eyes at Korra and moves a pawn to the centre of the board to start the game.
The outcome is predictable, at least in terms of their barter. Whose king survives will end up being rather irrelevant—Asami will give her the book free of charge anyways, as she always does, and Korra will insist that she has to leave the medallion with Asami, as it is simply too much effort for Korra to find willing customers for an ornament this peculiar, or some familiar excuse along those lines.
The sole price to win in their game is the bragging rights to victory.
Asami bites her lip as she stares at the board. She considers trading Korra’s horse for one of her elephants, trying to envision the sequence of events that would follow the exchange. The structure of Korra’s pawns looks susceptible to an attack, as well. Positionally, that might be the better bet.
She leans forward, sliding a pawn of her own into a square and capturing the pawn that had been occupying it.
Korra is not above some disruptive teasing to break the flow of the game and captures her hand immediately after she takes the pawn, leaning in and refusing to let go.
“Hey!” Asami protests, “I captured that fairly.”
“Shh, I’m helping.” Korra unfolds Asami’s fingers with some gentle prying of her own, taking the piece and then lacing their hands together.
She sets the pawn down beside the board, with the other captured pieces and brings Asami’s hand to her mouth. Her gaze is unbreaking as she presses kisses to Asami’s knuckles, the palm of her hand, the inside of her wrist.
Inadvertently, Asami has started leaning in, her eyes flickering from Korra’s ministrations to the loaded look in her eyes. She aches for that mouth on her own and Korra soon enough complies, leaving Asami’s hand to grab a hold on the back of her neck, threading her fingers through Asami’s hair.
A few hot, frankly earthshattering open-mouthed kisses later, Korra moves her insatiable lips to the side of Asami’s neck. She sucks hard on the sensitive skin and Asami feels a shock of arousal go right to her core.
“It’s your turn, habibti,” she breathes in lieu of a moan, if only to satisfy her competitive streak.
If Korra is willing to forfeit in order to kiss her senseless, that still counts as a win in Asami’s book.
Korra’s lips drag upwards towards the underside of her jaw. “Your shah is helpless, Asami,” she whispers, lips brushing against her ear. “I already won.”
Asami glances down at the board, seeing the position somewhat disturbed.
While leaning in for the kiss, Korra must have pushed Asami’s horse and chariot off the back rank, exposing her king to Korra’s attacking pieces. “That’s so not fair,” Asami protests, but her words lose some of their credibility when she tangles her fingers in the collar of Korra’s caftan and drags her back into a searing kiss.
“All’s fair in love and war,” Korra murmurs against her lips, before continuing to press slow, insistent kisses to them.
Their state of equilibrium is broken when Asami pulls a bit too hard—Korra topples forward, onto the board and onto Asami, the two of them falling back against the pillows.
This, too, is a predictable outcome.
“Should we go inside?” Asami suggests, but Korra’s hands are already roaming down the stitched roses that decorate Asami’s tunic. Her fingers tangle in the gleaming copper fasteners at her collar, pulling them open impatiently to slide her hand over the smooth skin of Asami’s chest.
“Hm, let’s just do it here,” Korra mutters into the crook of her neck.
With a frustrated groan, Asami shoves away the board between them. The wooden pieces clatter to the ground, rolling over the tiles. She huffs as she pulls Korra against her, muttering: “You’re insufferable,” against her temple before Korra resumes her way down.
Asami remembers the mean crook in her neck that her last foray on these pillows with Korra between her legs had caused, so she hooks her legs around Korra’s middle and flips them over less than gracefully.
Sitting back on Korra’s abs, she surveys her prey, letting her fingers trail down her chest and get caught on the buttons. Asami undoes one, then another, delighting in the tremor that runs through Korra’s shoulders when her fingers finally find skin.
“Let me guess,” Asami starts. Her fingers slide into the opening of Korra’s caftan. “This was the old commander’s idea.”
The wolfish grin Korra displays is begging her to retaliate, so Asami does, by pinning her hands to the ground. “The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting,” Korra quotes, looking smug. Asami leans back in to kiss that smirk from her face.
Maybe it’s the way her dark hair has fallen out from under her silk shawl, dropping down her shoulders in waves and creating a veil that separates them from the world. Maybe it’s just how distracting Korra is, with her strong arms, and that dimple that she gets when she smiles, and that playful twinkle in her eyes when she’s about to say something that she knows will make Asami roll her eyes.
Maybe it’s all of those things and a little bit of divine intervention, that makes the clouds roll in on what was up until an hour ago, a perfectly spotless sky.
Asami doesn’t even notice the first drops when they start rapping on her back and darken the tiles around them. But then it starts coming down so vigorously that it feels like someone’s tipped a tub of freezing water over her—Asami squeaks and clambers to her feet.
Rivulets of cool spring rain run down her exposed face and arms. She tries to pull Korra up, but the other girl is dissolving in laughter among the pillows as the rain soaks them.
“Come on, Korra,” Asami complains and she gets Korra to stand up, at least.
“What’s the use?” the other girl says as she pulls Asami into her arms, holding them in place, swaying. “We’re already wet.” Her fingers trace Asami’s hairline, pulling the loose strands that stick to her face to the side.
Asami kisses a stray drop of rain from Korra’s cheek. “You’ve been traveling for weeks,” she reminds her. “You should be getting a good night’s rest, not catching your death in a downpour.”
“Take me to bed, then,” Korra mumbles surreptitiously, pulling their hips together.
Her hands slide towards her backside, fingers digging in possessively and Asami lets out low, throaty chuckle. “Not so fast, you. Let’s get dry first.”
“Ya, Allah,” Korra exclaims, facing the grey sky briefly before she lets her forehead fall on Asami’s shoulder. “Weeks I’ve dreamed of seeing you again, nights spent restless among the sands, aching for your embrace…” She trails off.
Asami pats her shoulder sympathetically. “Tomorrow, to the person waiting for it, is near,” she can’t help saying, a crooked smile pulling on her lips. Korra rolls her eyes at the proverb and pulls her along to the house.
They change into dry clothes. Korra looks rather striking in one of Asami’s tunics, the rich, yellow silk emblazoned by pink embroidered dahlia’s; Asami makes sure to tell her so, earning herself an adorably flustered shout and a slap to the shoulder.
The pilav that’s been steaming above the fire of Asami’s modest hearth fills the main room of the house with the hearty smell of lamb meat, pepper, cumin and coriander.
“Oh, that smells amazing,” Korra sighs as she sits next to the hearth, watching Asami prepare two plates. “I’ve missed this.”
“I’ll make it for you every day,” Asami proposes, watching with a lightly constricting heart as Korra takes the plate and starts shovelling rice into her mouth.
She only hums in reply, her mouth too full to talk. Her bangs are still dripping water down her face and Asami gives in to the urge to smooth her hair back from her forehead.
They sit like this for a while, eating silently and drinking mead next to the crackling fire. The rain keeps coming down, tapping insistently against the roof. It’s not cold, but Asami huddles closer to Korra regardless, curling a hand around her arm possessively.
“How long will you stay?” she asks, once their plates are clean and their cups empty.
“Several weeks, at least,” Korra answers, her voice low and warm. “Until the spring melt has well and truly started. Bumi doesn’t dare cross the Pamirs otherwise.”
Asami hums, tightens her fingers around Korra’s bicep. “So I’ve got you to myself for a while?” Spring has started, but only just.
“For as long as you’ll have me.”
It’s a familiar answer. Familiar in the way Korra’s sparse possessions in this city sit untouched in a chest in her bedroom, just the way Korra had left them, several months ago. ‘As long as you’ll have me’ is never as long as Asami wants it to be. “Until you set out again,” she can’t help but mutter against Korra’s shoulder.
Korra’s head comes to rest against hers and her fingers find Asami’s in a solid grip, bringing them up to her face to kiss. “I’ll come back,” she proposes. “Don’t I always?”
“Sure,” replies Asami. “Just like I miss you, always.”
“I could set out and find a new route,” Korra wonders, her thumb stroking over Asami’s knuckles. “One that hasn’t been found, yet—one that will bring me back to you faster than ever before.”
“Please don’t,” Asami says, chuckling despite her heavy heart. The dangers of such an endeavour are not lost on her. “Tumbling down a mountain might be fastest, but I like you most alive, with all your limbs attached.
Korra grins. “Oh yeah?” She twists, dropping her hand in order to traitorously dig her fingers in Asami’s side, tickling her. “So I can do this?”
Asami yelps and tries to ducks out of the way, unsuccessfully, given their proximity. Her hands find Korra’s easily enough, trapping them in a vicelike grip. “There’s much nicer things these could be doing,” she says, and Korra pulls her hand back to answer with a kiss.
There is a desperation to them now, an insistence to touch, arising from the ache of missing or the knowledge that their time is finite, Asami can’t know—perhaps both.
That’s the thing about falling in love with a caravan trader. Eventually, inevitably, they set out again. Asami knots her fingers in Korra’s damp locks and tries not to think about that.
Or rather, with Korra’s hands so soft and secure as they caress down her body, she likes to think of Korra coming back. Back to her always, back to the bookshop, with trinkets or precious stones and the type of stories that are better told than read.
For now, they’ll wait until the rain stops. Until the sun sinks so low as to come out from behind the clouds again, painting the city in shades of ochre, amber and gold. They’ll sit on the roof in that light, watching the storm move further west, passing over the plains. They’ll see the lightning in those clouds, dance freely through the sky. They’ll listen to the sparrows talk amongst one another in their melodious chirps. They’ll eat ripe peaches.
Her skin will heat up in the light. Korra will smile just how she did when she entered the shop this morning, the crooked one that speaks of utter contentment and love.
Her fingers will be slightly sticky when they reach and cover Asami’s, coming to rest there, happily tethered.
