I (still) don't own Ruby. And to the regret of some, I don't write for it either.
I also don't own, or even possess, the skill of Paul Harvey, in prose of speaking.
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Oum made a Farmer
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And for his Eighth Hero, Oum looked down on his planned blood-stained Remnant and said, "I need a caretaker." So Oum made a farmer.
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Their first time together was their first night under the same roof.
She was the stranger who shared dinner after being picked up on the side of the road. He was the farmer offered her sanctuary. She was the honored guest. He was the host. Sacred laws of hospitality guaranteed her protection. He would never have compelled her in any way, and it never occurred to him to do so. That was the simple sort of man he was.
It was only appropriate that he'd be concerned when he woke up to the sound of fevered dreams and night terrors. It was only proper that he'd wake her from her nightmare and offer to do whatever he could to help her. It was only right that, having given it, he would keep his word.
What she asked wasn't improper. Just to be held for a little while. What she meant might have been. But it wasn't wanton, and even if it wasn't love (yet), it made it.
(For him, it was a cherished memory. For her, it was the night that the waking nightmares were banished to where they belonged, and the start of days that passed like a dream she never had to wake from.)
Hair like hay, a wiry strength, and a farmer's tan that left his hands and face and neck looking like the soil of the honest earth. His hands are worn and leathery- soft and nimble and strong all at once, with callouses not from weapon hilts but from constant hard work holding reigns and hoes and ropes and everything else a farmer needs.
He's nervous, and awkward, and with a red tinge that isn't sunburn as she leads him into the bedroom. He's inexperienced and ignorant of this sort of thing but he's also kind, oh so kind, and Pyrhha knows that even if he is simple he will simply be good. He will be as considerate as she wants, as gentle as she needs, and through him her heart will heal.
(She looks at her future husband, his future wife is looking at him, looking at him despite being wonderful and exotic and so beautiful herself, and she smiles as she takes him all in. "You are marvelous," she always says afterwards in that awkward formal way of hers, playing with his hair like a cat with straw.)
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Author Note:
This is not so much the sequel, but the spiritual continuation of 'A Farmer or Something.' It's broken in many parts because (A) that's just my thing, and (B) if I didn't it would all outweigh the first part, which I still consider the crux and core of the premise of this piece of work.
It's also the sorta-kinda-not-really apology/make-up gift to Arkos after 'An Affair or Something,' even though this was written first. It's just been waiting to be posted. This is for you, Pyrrha.