Hey, so you may have noticed that I've made an addition to the title! The original one felt a bit vague, and I'm hoping the new one does a better job of conveying the mood and the setting.
Anyway, on with the story! Time for Cassandra and Meraad to go on a dinner date, where the conversation will take an unexpected and rather vulnerable turn...
A gust of wind hurtles down a winding avenue in central Haven. Bracing herself, Cassandra rounds a corner and finds the Antivan trattoria tucked into a side street. Golden light pours out of the front window. She pulls open the wooden door, which is painted as green as the plants that crowd the windowsill. It's a cozy place that smells of fresh herbs, toasted spices, and rich sauces. The walls are coated with stucco and decorated with elaborately painted ceramic dishes. A guitar and lute concerto floats through the air, under the light chatter, clink of cutlery, and occasional sizzle from behind the curtained door to the kitchen.
A dozen tables fill the room, most of them empty at this time of night. Meraad sits at the one in the far corner, scrolling through his phone. He's wearing a flannel shirt in dark red and blue plaid with the sleeves rolled up over his well-muscled forearms. Cassandra permits herself to stare for exactly two seconds before she approaches.
"Have I kept you waiting long?" she asks, anxious at being even a few minutes late. She miscalculated how long it would take to walk here from home, where she'd been writing an essay for a seminar next week.
Meraad looks up, and the smile he gives her is as bright as the midday sun. (Oh. Now she feels wobbly for an entirely different reason.)
"Hey, Cassandra! I just got here, don't worry about it." He hastily stows the phone in his coat pocket. "How was your day?"
Cassandra tells him as she hangs her bag and jacket over the back of a carved wooden chair, then sits, adjusting the wide neckline of her sage-green sweater. She gestures at the table. "Is it comfortable for you? The height."
Meraad shrugs, shifting his legs. "Could be better, but I can deal." He gives her a thoughtful look. "Thanks for asking. In any case, the food here is so good, I'd sit with my knees around my ears if I had to."
"That's quite the image," she replies, and they share a look of amusement. She takes one of the menus, which is charmingly handwritten in fountain-pen ink, the runes sloping and spidery. She loves Antivan food, and is so glad that Meraad asked her about it last night. "What do you recommend?"
"The carbonara is perfect here," says Meraad, trying to contain a burst of enthusiasm. "It tastes just like my friend's grandmother makes it back in Tresana, I swear. And the risotto with mushrooms—they use local ones, so it's not the same, but honestly I think it's better. Not that I can ever say that back home. My family would disown me. Anyway, they also make a fantastic paella, and there are specials that aren't even on the menu, so we could ask about that. It's up to you."
"I'm happy to try anything." Cassandra has been watching him intently with her chin resting on her fist. Her expression turns curious. "So Tresana is your hometown? In northern Ansburg, with the olive groves?"
She remembers! "That's the one. The owners of this place are from southern Antiva, and in my experience it's close enough. I hoped you might like the atmosphere."
"It's beautiful," says Cassandra, glancing around the room with that faint smile of hers. While she works her way down the menu, Meraad takes in all of the little differences in her appearance tonight: the delicate gold hoop and crystal stud in each of her ears, the sweep of her exposed neckline and shoulder, the way her sweater drapes over the curves of her bre—okay, that's enough. Meraad drags his attention to the painted plates on the wall to stop himself from staring.
As they give the waiter their orders, Meraad's eyes drift back to Cassandra's mouth, which is painted in a shade of dark plum. It looks like a lip stain rather than a lipstick, based on what he remembers of Asaara's makeup jars. They haven't spoken since she called to check on him after the accident. He hopes she's doing well in Ostwick.
Come on, Meraad, focus. Don't think about your ex when you're on a date with your new—
Cassandra raises her glass of sparkling mineral water. "Congratulations again on the victory."
Meraad clinks his glass against hers and takes a sip. The bubbles tickle his nose; he begs himself not to sneeze or burp. "Thanks, Cassandra. Bull and I couldn't be prouder." He lowers his volume and softens his tone as he catches her eye again. "You know, I really liked it when you called me afterward. It was good to hear your voice."
Color blooms across her cheeks, a crimson almost as vivid as her jagged scar. "I wish I had been there at the rink," she says. "It was… well, you heard my opinion."
He laughs. "Yeah, you weren't wrong. Sometimes I miss being out there on the ice, and other times I'm really glad I permanently screwed up my hand and had to quit."
Cassandra's face falls. "You had an injury?"
"To be more accurate, I have an injury." His sheepish admission does little to assuage Cassandra's worries. "No one's entirely sure what it is, but I've been going to physical therapy for a while, and that seems to help. It's a nerve injury in my left hand and lower arm," he says, extending it to her palm-up on the table. He takes her hand, letting her fingertips brush against his calluses. "It barely hurts anymore, but this is where it started." He moves her fingers to his wrist and slowly traces upwards.
"I had no idea," Cassandra murmurs.
"Good," he says, oddly bright. "That's the goal."
"How did it happen?" She isn't sure if she wants to know, but she needs to, if she ever intends to understand him. Which she does. Dear Maker, she does.
A hint of unease crosses his face. "Mind if I give you the short version for now?" She nods, and he continues. "There was some weird bullshit at a tournament game. I don't remember a lot of it, but it didn't happen on the ice. Kind of ironic, all things considered." He sighs. "When you're a mage, you have this… sense, sometimes. I remember feeling that something was off in the arena that day, but I couldn't do anything until it was too late."
"I'm... I'm so sorry."
Meraad gives her fingers a brief squeeze. "Ah, you know. Like I said, these days I'm doing all right. Just have to take it easy. The doctors are going to keep running tests to figure out what's zapping me from the inside. Hockey doesn't do great things to your body, so I've probably gotten lucky in the long run." He folds his arms and leans forward. "Hey, enough about me. Can I ask how you got into fencing?"
Cassandra sits back and plays with the cuff of her sweater. Where to begin…
"I had very few choices, growing up." Cassandra's words are measured, as if she's feeling her way along a narrow ledge. Meraad prepares himself to catch her if need be.
She pauses to think. "If you'll also accept the short version of events…"
"Sure, however much you want to tell."
Cassandra settles her shoulders, bolstering herself. "It started during the year that upended my life. I was six years old, and my brother Anthony and I had gone to live with our uncle in the Grand Necropolis. When I developed hay fever that spring, I dealt with it by punching trees." She smirks and looks down at the table. "My brother found some medicine and told me to use my words next time. He was ten."
Meraad frowns, his mouth pressed into a line. "Damn. That sounds rough."
"It was. I learned to adjust to my new situation, but I was restless. Anthony and I were kept at home, since we could hardly go wandering around the necropolis unsupervised. Eventually, when our uncle remembered we existed, he noticed my excessive energy and decided that I needed an acceptable outlet. It helped that I had already been devouring all the adventure novels I could find. Uncle Vestalus found a fencing studio for me and my brother to attend, and soon enough, I was transformed." Cassandra swirls her glass absently, watching the water tremble and the bubbles fizz. "There you have it."
"I could tell that fencing means a lot to you," says Meraad, gently, "but I didn't realize it went this deep."
"My life would have been very different without it. I think I am better off when I have some structure. The kind that I can choose. It focuses me."
"I know what you mean."
Meraad is about to say something more, but then the waiter interrupts with their food.
The noise that Cassandra makes when she eats her first bite of the risotto is horrendous. She would hide under the table in embarrassment, if she weren't so busy with the second bite, and then the third.
Meraad pauses over his own dish and observes her with a crooked grin. "Does that mean you like it?"
Why must he tease her so? Cassandra nods. I will not talk with my mouth full. I will not make a fool of myself in front of my—
Her mind cycles through a few different words for their relationship and struggles to settle comfortably on any of them. She takes a forkful of mushrooms and creamy saffron rice and shoves it decisively into her mouth. At least she's sure of one thing right now.
She watches as Meraad twirls a nest of narrow, flat pasta around his fork. The tomato-based sauce is laden with slivers of fried eggplant and dusted with grated cheese and basil. He picks up a bit of each ingredient with the easy precision of someone who doesn't need to think about what they're doing.
"Is this your favorite dish here?" she asks, gesturing with her fork.
"Mm-hmm," he mumbles around the bundle of pasta. He wipes his mouth with a white linen napkin. "Do you want to try some?"
Cassandra is moved by this for reasons she can't fully explain. Maybe it's the simple contentment on his face or the casual intimacy of his offer. The way he winds another perfectly balanced forkful, wanting to share this thing that he loves. To share it with her.
"Yes, please," she says, and he holds out the fork with the stem facing her. She takes it and eats the—holy Andraste, this is divine.
She makes a noise of pleasure (quieter this time) and closes her eyes so as to better savor the flavors and textures, savory and crisp and smooth and fresh and acidic. The pasta has a pleasant springiness between her teeth.
When she opens her eyes again, Meraad is watching her with his elbows on the table, thick fingers laced together in anticipation. She tries and fails to stifle a grin, and both of them burst into giggles.
Not long afterwards, their plates are empty, their stomachs full. Cassandra brings up the most recent episode of The Legend of Luthias Dwarfson, and they become so absorbed in discussing it that they barely notice that the other customers have left and the waiter has begun to clear off the tables and sweep the floor.
"I was going to suggest that we go for a walk," says Meraad, after they apologize and pay the bill, "but the wind seems pretty strong tonight."
Cassandra wraps her scarf around her neck. "My apartment isn't far from here. Do you drink decaf?"
"Sure, if you're making it," says Meraad, a spark of interest in his eyes.
Cassandra put the suggestion forward without thinking too much about it. The location makes sense. The activity makes sense. The amount of privacy—
Oh, Maker, she thinks, as they head out into the night.
He's going to see my apartment.
He's going to see all of my books.
Note: the rating will increase to E in the next chapter, so this will be the last chapter I post here. If you want to keep reading, you can find the rest of the story on AO3. My username is taslin_strider (riana_hawke). :)