The days were spent in training and command. She learned, taught and grew as a soldier.
The evenings were spent in training and command. She learned, taught and grew as a woman.
What had started spontaneously evolved into something more substantive; on scraps no longer did Cauthrien sup. A relationship had blossomed -- for that was truly what it was, a relationship. On the evening of King Cailan's visit, a change took place. Footing became more even. Needs, though unspoken, became understood. She mattered and he stayed.
She kept her room. She kept her space officially. But every evening, she returned to his. A single knock would announce her presence. Welcome entry was given and expected.
The whispers in the halls had not gone unheard. Cauthrien knew the gossip. She did not care. Those that dared to make snide comments to her personally, that dared to ignore her status, learned what it meant to cross her.
She showed mercy to the first -- a small woman that saw fit to accuse Cauthrien of rising through the ranks on her back. The words had come in an alcohol rage tinged with bitterness and jealousy. A wanted promotion had not been received. She left the woman with all her limbs, fingers and toes. Only her pride received a bruising.
The second was Cauthrien's previous superior. He made the mistake of touching things he should not in ways he was not allowed.
I understand you like…officers.
She left him with all his limbs, fingers and toes. His right ear proved a delicious dessert for one lucky mabari.
And the whispers came to an end. She heard no whispers as she left the dining hall. She heard no whispers as she walked the length of the corridor to his rooms.
She found Loghain sitting in a chair in front of the hearth. He did not turn as she entered nor he did not speak. She walked to him, stopping behind his chair. Fingers curled atop his shoulders and slid deliberately down his chest as she leaned into him.
"You are late," he noted, his eye's focus remaining upon the fire.
She brushed her right cheek against his left, letting the feel of stubble scrape against her skin. "Ser Fredric had an ear for gossip. I had to help him get over that," Cauthrien murmured. Loghain's fingertips traced the rise and fall of her hands as they entwined at his waist. Contentment rode languid over her, drawing a small sigh from her mouth.
"I have something for you," he noted, unmoving from his seat.
Gone was the girl that waited on Loghain to make the first move, any move. With time, a confidence has grown inside her. A thumb glided up slightly to hook against the upper portion of his pants. "I have something for you too, your Grace."
She felt his breath hitch beneath the tease of her touch. Otherwise he did not stir. "On my desk, there is something for you."
Her chin dipped forward, a defeatist pose. Fingers stilled their dive. There was something on the desk for her and it was quite obvious, he would have her go see it sooner rather than later. She reversed the course of her hands, sliding up his chest and slowly over his shoulders before releasing her clutch upon him.
She walked to the fixture, a small smile overtaking her mouth. Resting atop the desk was rather long and large object covered in fabric. Not many things came in such sizes and Cauthrien had little trouble guessing what might be beneath the folds of velvet. As she pushed away the material, the high shine finish of well polished metal came into view.
Her breath held as fingers roved in tentative exploration of the swirling design of the hilt – delicate swoops of carefully spun silverite weaved in intricate design to form an interlacing circular pattern. Marked upon the hilt, the name of its maker was emblazoned, Vercenne of Halamshiral. She knew the name instantly. This sword had been made by the finest smith in the Orlesian empire. The blade was as long as she was tall and its edges as sharp as any she had seen. It was by far the most beautiful thing her eyes had ever laid upon. And he intended this…for her?
"It's….," she began, eyes rising from her gift in search of Loghain. While she was opening her present, he had left his seat and moved quietly closer to her.
"…Orlesian." The word dripped disdainful from his lips. But as he continued, his tone took on its customary poignancy, "I took it from a rather arrogant Orlesian chevalier at the Battle of Avinash. He held it like a boy and fought much the same."
Cauthrien wrapped her hands about the base of the sword, lifting it from the desk. She had expected it to be heavy and weigh down her arms with its mass. But strangely, while it did have a definite weight, the sword was not nearly as burdensome as she thought it might be. The Silverite, she had thought. "You wish me to have this?"
"No, I thought I might just show it to you and then tuck it away in a closet somewhere because I am such a tease." An eyebrow ticked up, Loghain's expression overtaken in the sardonic, though a small bit of humor seemed to touch at the corners of his mouth ever so slight. "Yes, it is for you. The smith called it the Summer Sword."
She felt like jumping up and down. No one had ever given her something like this before. She had received gifts from her family in the past, but they were always of the practical variety – a new pair of shoes, a new dress, or ribbon for her hair. And while a sword might be viewed as practical as well, this was no ordinary sword. The craftsmanship was exquisite and the significance of its origin was not lost to her.
A trophy, he has given me a trophy.
She allowed the excited woman inside her to jump and dance while on the outside she remained calm and reserved; only the smile playing happy across her lips betrayed her pleasure. "Thank you, Loghain. I am…" Yours completely, she had thought. The emotions swallowed down in an instant, a more vague word spoken, "….honored."
The space between them narrowed as Loghain moved to stand next to her. He took the sword from her and set it back atop the desk. The familiar grasp of his hand reached for her, tugging the tie of her ponytail loose so that her hair fell to just below her chin. Fingers glided smooth between the locks so that he could cup her face within their clutch. "Good."
They fell into kiss, a well practiced routine founded in their mutual need of each other. His weaknesses she abused – the nape of his neck, the crook of an ear, the inside of a thigh. Her weaknesses he exploited – the tug of her hair just so, the roughness of his caress against bared skin, the slow and commanding rock of his body behind hers.
In the bed they fell, arms and legs entangled in sweaty embrace. To his heart she listened, her head against his chest. And she hoped, though he would never say it, and she would never ask, that she had claim to a portion of its beat.