Okay, so I haven't read Will of the Empress yet, and (SPOILER) I just found out that she definitely reveals these two. Cue my fandom revival, and three days of spazzing. I haven't read/written Tamora in 4 years. My, my. Enjoy the females!
i.
Briar crashes haphazardly through the swinging kitchen door, out of breath and hasty. It is near sundown, and the last few rays of piercing sunlight strike the windows of Discipline with a glare verging on obnoxious. "Lark, Rosethorn, I've just been to Dedicate Gorse who says that our dinner's ready but I'm supposed to come ask if I can pick it up, so now I'm asking, and—"
They stand by the countertop, oblivious to all around them. Briar doesn't even think they're cognizant of his presence in the tiny room. Rosethorn appears absorbed with the tiny wrinkles crisscrossing Lark's golden knuckles, and she strokes Lark's palm with a callused thumb. They converse, it seems, in hushed tones, recounting details that Briar can neither hear nor understand. He backs away, feeling voyeuristic in this obviously intimate moment, but his elbow catches a pan on his way out, limbs grown lanky and uncontrollable in rapid development.
The dissonant clang startles all three of them. Rosethorn's head whips around, and she regards Briar with a sort of vague disdain, mouthing something discreet to Lark as he turns on his heel and flees. He can hear her begin to cackle softly as his latter boot crosses the threshold.
Briar isn't there to see a bare, garden-soiled foot creep its way stealthily up a bronzed leg, nor does he witness Lark's secretive, protecting smile as she tugs her Rosie closer.
ii.
The sun's shadows are twice as long now in the garden where Briar steps carefully, blinking in the honey-basked hue that near-twilight brings. He kneels in the dirt beside the bean pods, cradling them carefully in his hands.
His expression is not one of revulsion, or resignation, or even amusement. It is merely one of assessment, of processing a few simple realizations and putting together some ill-matched instances to develop his own underlying confusion. Did you know about them? he mind-whispers to the surrounding growth, stroking each leaf and tendril with a delicate hand. How long?
The beans shimmer with excitement and recognition. The bird one? they seem to reply. Yes, we know her. She thinks about the bird one when she works, often. They are one and the same.
Briar grins widely. He doesn't know why he ever expected otherwise.
iii.
Briar's gone when Rosethorn reaches her garden, but she can still feel his magic quivering among the beans. She waves quickly to an approaching Sandry, dashing up the path for dinner, before crouching on the ground as the Hub clock charms seven.
She sighs. A handful of soil passes through her fist, velvet and cool. She recalls the touch of Lark's fingers across her cheek, and blushes, amused that something so beautiful could consume her thoughts just this well.
iv.
Lark is weaving when Rosethorn enters the room. The sky nearly dark, a candle burns next to her loom, and the soft clatter of shuttle nearly causes her to miss the dedicate's quiet footsteps.
Rosethorn envelops Lark from behind, wrapping her arms around Lark's ribcage and settling her chin against a bony shoulder. She wiggles it enough to make Lark squirm a bit.
"Rosie, don't do that. You're killing my concentration."
"Mmmm." Rosethorn nuzzles Lark's neck, and kisses her hard on the side of the mouth. "Forget I'm here. Keep weaving. I like to watch you work."
Instead, Lark turns to face her, eyebrows furrowed and gaze downcast. She picks up Rosethorn's hand, tossing it lightly with her own. "Why do you do that, love? Why aren't you like that with other people. With me it's just flirt and affection, and yet you can't display that capacity to anyone else but Briar. It baffles me, because at least I show the same side to everyone I meet."
Rosethorn snorts, but kisses Lark's fingertip anyway. "See, girl, this is where you and I part ways. Firstly, Briar's a goose. Secondly, I don't like people. I do like you."
"And so, the barbed tongue appears again. Please, sheath it for a moment longer. I do like it when you're affectionate."
Rosethorn doesn't say anything more, just touches Lark's hair while she weaves, blending the same perfect hues to reflect the dazzling lavender sky.
"So Briar's a goose, is he?" Lark breaks the silence casually, barely turning from the task at hand.
"It's only metaphorical, darling." Rosethorn scratches the crown of Lark's head, gentle. "Now just keep working your magic."
v.
Wrapped around each other in Lark's bed, because Rosethorn's cot is nothing more than simply a plank with a sheet, they breathe deeply. Lark reaches out to brush a lock of hair from Rosethorn's forehead, and flicks her gently.
"I'm angry with you." Her voice seems weary, resigned, as if she's been harboring that very emotion for the latter part of the day.
"Why's that?"
"Because it's my birthday, and you've forgotten." Lark lifts a hand to touch Rosethorn's cheek again, but she's swatted away.
"No, I haven't forgotten. It's just you that hasn't been in your wardrobe all day. I'm terrible at hiding things, you know that."
Lark lazily pushes herself to the floor, disentangling the summer sheet wrapped around hers and Rosethorn's bare legs. She slumps across the wooden floor, and suppresses a yawn, flinging the plain wooden door open with anticipation.
Her breath catches in her throat, and she turns to her counterpart, eyes brimming with tears. "Oh, Rosie, it's beautiful." Inside the wardrobe sits a beautifully worked loom, of far better quality than the one sitting in her workroom downstairs. It practically gleams with new varnish, and she longs to thread it, begin a new project, maybe with Sandry's added expertise this time around.
"Don't say that, please."
Lark looks at her disparagingly. "Do me a favor, would you, and learn how to take a compliment? You're worse that Tris."
Rosethorn snorts. "Oh, you've just got given a gift, and now I'm the one who's supposed to be saying thank you."
Lark's gaze settles across a room better than words ever could. Shut up, it says plainly, but if one reads the subtext, it says, I love you, beautiful. And so much more.
vi.
Stargazing on Discipline's roof. Something the children delight in, and yet something the two women haven't accomplished in a very long time. Careful not to wake the rest of the house, they shiver slightly against the cool breeze rippling through their nightshifts, and move closer.
Lark, the taller of the two, can rest her cheek perfectly against Rosethorn's head. She inhales sharply, and smirks at what she finds.
"You smell like soil, Rosie. Like plumb dirt."
"I'm a gardener. Honestly, what do you expect? I can't be fragrant and lavender-y like some other people currently sliding off this rooftop."
"Hush." Lark seals off her chatter with a delicate kiss, and sees a flower written in the stars above them. How absolutely fitting.
-fin-