Title: A Sea of Poppies
Word Count: 1334
Summary: She asks to see the wound in the sunlight, the moonlight, and in a time that is neither quite sunset nor sunrise.
Started: June 16, 2009
Completed: February 6, 2010
Last Edited: September 8, 2010 for formatting issues
Posted: February 7, 2010 on LJ, March 17, 2010 on FF.n
Author's Note: Hello all, here is the new one-shot collection I promised all of you. Updates will be slow, but I suppose you're all used to that now. Thank you to you, my readers, for sticking with me this long. To new readers, I hope this doesn't scare you off like my earlier stuff probably does, haha. A table of contents for this will be posted on my LJ and linked to my FF.n profile when the next chapter comes out.
Written for fe_contest; prompt #2, wounds. The second and third parts were written to Vienna Teng's Gravity and St. Stephen's Cross, respectively. The last line is derived from St. Stephen's Cross. Some dialogue taken from the Level C Support. Am slightly worried about OOC. Also apologies if the tone doesn't match; the first part was written a good while before the rest.
She asks to see the wound, and the noonday sun is hot around them. Its heat presses down his armor and through his sticky skin.
His weight shifts to his right foot with a creak of leather, and his hand touches his side instinctually.
"My lady…"
"Seth, please. I must know, if only for my own peace of mind; it sets me ill at ease to know you are hurt because I – "
"My lady, please. I am a General, a knight; this wound is both my duty and my honor. Please, let it be."
Her hand is half-extended, the fingers graceful in their motion just as they are gripping their blade – they're beautiful even when they're slicked with blood, and his pride flutters in his chest at how well she's learned from him. Her eyes are liquid; the color, the way the light wavers on them – now it is his fatigue beleaguering him, because eyes don't ripple like water. Regardless, his fingers press against the edges of the wound; there is no doubt it will leave a remarkable scar. The expression of her eyes is something he's never been quite able to say no to in the short span of their meetings.
He relents, and she sees it in his eyes, because then she is taking the last few steps towards him and reaching for buckles and snaps to undo to raise his shirt. He takes her wrist though; although they are alone at the moment, knowing they are in the light makes all the difference and he will not expose her to… There is impropriety in seeing him in a state of undress, but he knows she will not stop her persistent pleas, and that her eyes won't halt their persuasion. So instead, he slides her hand under his shirt.
He carefully watches her face, not quite sure if this is any better than seeing him unclothed. She is shocked, her mouth round with surprise and her eyes wide. He tries very hard to ignore her fingertips as he brings it to the wound.
He releases her wrist, and asks, "Is this enough to satiate your curiosity, my lady?"
Her hand slides away quickly and returns to her side where she rubs it with her free hand. " – Yes, I apologize for… I mean, I didn't mean for you to –" Her face slowly turns red.
"I am at your command, and if it pleases you to ask this of me, I shall gladly do so. There is no need to apologize."
When she first asks to see the wound, it is night, and the sliver of the moon hangs in suspension between the trees. He is ready to retire to bed, and she catches him in that small moment where all the camp is silent and nothing moves but the land around them.
She asks him how he fares. He replies he wishes to have served her better; his lance arm is fine despite the wound.
"Show it to me," she says.
Perhaps because it is late, and he is so tired, and her request so earnest, he raises the hem of his shirt. At the edges of the wound, he is aware how very cold the air is. She moves closer and he is surprised and embarrassed to notice how warm her breath is as she leans in to peer closely in the darkness.
"It has not fully healed."
He hears the creak of her armor and her hand reaches out to touch him. He grasps blindly at words to distract himself and to stop her fingers. "What," he whispers, and he doesn't know what to think of how breathless he sounds, "makes you think of this, my lady?" Dull pain travels down his neck as he strains to look down at her.
Her hand retreats, and her back straightens to gaze almost evenly at him. "Your fighting is as superb as ever, Seth. But when you raise your lance, I see a flicker of pain on your face, as if you were merely enduring it… But it only lasts a moment. Perhaps is all just my imagination." Her eyes question, almost dare, him to tell her she is just imagining this phantom pain.
He assures her he is fine.
She continues to unravel him. "Without you," she says, "I may not be able to continue this quest."
That she would beg this of him, that perhaps she needed him… That was a dangerous path to let his mind tread.
"You praise me too much, my lady…"
The words hang in the air, and it is silent except for the quiet rustling of the woods.
He looks to her for a dismissal, but instead she says just a little wistfully, "Ephraim used to kiss my wounds when we were little to help them heal."
He cannot, and in truth, does not want to, read what lies in her eyes. He is about to ask to take his leave, when her face takes on a queer expression, as if she isn't quite sure of herself or her words.
"Ah, I apologize, Seth. I do not know why I said that." Perhaps she does not know, but he can see how devastating she will be when she is older.
She nods, bids him goodnight, and turns in the direction of her own tent.
He is left alone in the wood, and he wishes her hand had bridged that small distance between them.
He endeavors, afterwards, to overcome the pain of his wound.
The third time she asks him about the wound is after the war has ended. The sky is at the point where the dark of the sea melts into a sea of poppies. The sun is low on the horizon and the moon lies opposite it, a ring of rainbowed light surrounding it; one sinks into and the other rises above the hills.
They are in the outskirts of Renais, and but a day's ride away from the capital. The past few days are a blur of celebrations, and mournful screams for the dead. This is the first moment of peace he has found.
He comes across her, her feet bare on the shore of the lake. Her cloak is on the sand, and her armor carefully placed over it; her rapier still hangs at her side.
He hears her speak his name over the gentle rush of wind and lapping waves.
"In these past weeks, I have given thought to your words. And I think, that if I have learned anything – " There is something new in her voice, as if she has fought herself only to find something greater instead.
She turns quickly and crosses the distance between them.
"Seth, how fares your wound?"
His forehead furrows. "It is as it was the last time you asked, my lady."
She takes his hand, and he is so startled by the intimacy of it, he can neither withdraw his hand nor grasp hers. He hears her take a large breath, and she slips his hand beneath her blouse.
He tries to step back, but her grip is strong. He protests. "There is a wound here." She winces as she presses his hand against her side. "And it will scar."
He does not know what to make of this moment; he doesn't ever know what to think when he is alone with her.
"My lady…"
"What I feel is not improper, and what you told me is true, but I have seen in this war what lies before me should I listen to you. And I think that you do too."
She releases his hand and leans up towards him. "You and I," she continues, "are not that different at all."
Looking up at him, she is so close to him now. He closes the last few steps between them, his feet sinking into the wet earth, and despite how cold it is, her breathing is warm against his mouth.