I never actually intended for this story (I say story-I guess it's more like a series of one-shots) to get past one or two chapters, but here we are! Props to anyone who recognizes the quote at the end. And thanks to everyone who posted such lovely reviews! I would love even more ;)
She watches him from across the field, teaching a young boy how to fight. She admires his movements—fluid, practiced—a contrast to the clumsy movements of the boy, she notes with amusement. When they finish, she turns to leave, but comes face-to-face with a pair of intense brown eyes and their owner handing her a cudgel, telling her it's her turn.
Another meeting. She groans inwardly as she arranges her notes.
"If I die of boredom, I want to be cremated," she says dramatically.
"You're not going to die," he rolls his eyes.
Just counting today, she has lost four sparring matches in a row.
"Don't worry, it's not a competition," he reassures her. Suddenly his face breaks into a grin. "But it if was, I won."
"So…there's been something I've been giving a lot of thought."
"What's that?"
"I think it's time for you to grow a beard."
He will never understand her fascination with facial hair.
The room is crowded and the buzz of pleasant conversation fills the air. She joins him at a table and hands him a mug of ale. He briefly admires her exquisitely embroidered crimson dress and looks at her empty hands.
"Aren't you going to drink, too?"
"When I get you drunk and have you tell me all your secrets I want to remember what they are." She winks at him and secretly he thinks she might not be joking.
After months of sparring together, she has finally won a match.
"Look at all this raw talent I didn't realize I had!" she exclaims, delighted to have finally bested the formerly undefeatable swordsman.
He huffs and mutters that she shouldn't let it go to her head.
After a long and surprisingly entertaining afternoon, she details the events of her most recent meeting in which she put an arrogant governor in his place.
"I take a lot of pleasure in telling men that they're wrong. And then proving it. It's one of my few joys in life."
He secretly thinks she needs a new hobby.
He sits near the fireplace, cleaning his sword. She sits at her desk, writing on what looks like a very official document in a foreign language.
"Would you happen to know that word for "moustache" in Urgal-ese?"
He wonders why there are so many parties they have to go to. He doesn't even like drinking that much. He looks around and spies Nasuada (a midnight blue dress this time) walking towards him holding a mug of ale.
"I'm taking you prisoner for an hour," she says, pulling him towards an emptier part of the room. "You have to talk to me so I regain some of my sanity before I have to rejoin the wolves.
He follows her.
"How can I resist when I have such a beautiful jailer?" he murmurs.
He finds her in the library. She stands close to one of the shelves, completely absorbed in a book. He watches as she closes her eyes, brings the book up to her face, and breathes deeply. Time stands still as she pauses this way for a moment, then closes it gently and returns it to the shelf. He catches a glimpse of blue and gold before it passes from sight.
They spar more and more frequently and Nasuada learns how you can know someone so well that their movements become part of your dance. When their swords meet, they are the clash of darkness and light; when they circle, they are the eternity between stillness and movement.
After another close sparring match in which he is about to declare himself the victor, she throws aside her cudgel, pushes him to the ground, and declares that she won. "By cheating," he grins. She is straddling him, the weight of her hands on his chest. They look at each other for a few moments. His hands encircle her wrists—
He starts to think about all the things he would call her if she were his.
"Why won't you tell me?"
"I don't know." He pauses. "It's too easy to tell you all my secrets. I feel like I should have some secrets from you."
The two are sparring before dinner, as has become their custom. She is wearing rough work clothes and her hair is pulled back in a messy knot. They are greatly enjoying themselves—teasing, circling, trying to find an opening where they can land a good blow. A maid rushes out frazzled and insists that Nasuada must come inside immediately to change—there is a visiting dignitary who may be a potential suitor.
"What's wrong with what I'm wearing now?" she demands.
"Don't you understand? He wants to marry you! This would be a good match!"
"He wants to marry me?" She gestures to herself with her cudgel, indicating her rough clothes, sweat stains, and messy hair. "This IS me!"
But she puts down her makeshift sword carefully and dutifully follows the maid. Murtagh stoops to pick it up and silently watches her leave.
"Dance with me," she says.
He thinks to himself that parties aren't all that bad.
"So what are we supposed to do? Just pretend we don't feel this way about each other?" he shouts at her receding figure.
Sometimes they travel alone together and she doesn't know how to explain their relationship to outsiders. She tells everyone that they are cousins (a fib usually met with amusement because they couldn't possibly look any less related). It is a long-running joke between the two and they have taken to calling each other cousin in jest even when they are alone.
"I'll take the first watch."
"No, I'll take the first watch."
"Go to sleep, or I'll hit you over the head with my frying pan."
He grumbles to himself that she is such a bad cook that she wouldn't know what else to do with one.
She wonders about how easy it is to love someone and how difficult it is to say it.
"You realize I'm not going to let you sleep on the floor, right? I still have some semblance of chivalry."
"You're supposed to treat me like an equal, remember? That means taking turns sleeping on the floor."
"Just lie on the bed."
"But I'm already lying here. Too much effort to move." She closes her eyes and pretends to sleep.
He looks at her and gives an exasperated sigh. She smiles thinking she has won. Then his eyes glint mischievously and he stoops next to her, and—ignoring her startled indignation—tears off her blankets and scoops her up. He carries her to the bed and plops her down roughly.
"So gentle!"
"Here, I'll even tuck you in," he grins, grabbing the blankets and covering her with mock forcefulness.
"Are you going to tell me a bedtime story too?"
"I don't want to be your cousin anymore," he says.
"Are you here to tell me that women don't belong in battle?"
"No, I'm here to tell you that you don't belong in battle."
She ignores him.
"We'll look tomorrow for the bodies," a man remarks. He goes insane imagining her as a body—
"Damn it," he exclaims, still giddy from relief. "I'm trying to profess my love for you and you don't even understand it."
She squeezes his hand and gives him a smile so sweet that his heart skips a beat before resuming at a frantic pace.
What a beautiful thing it is to come home, she thinks, and to be still.
He glances at her slumbering form and rescues a book with a simple blue cover from where it had fallen on the floor. A feather—apparently serving as a bookmark—flutters to the ground as he opens the book to the marked page, his fingers caressing the gold spine.
So the darkness shall be the light
And the stillness the dancing