In Tents, Part Two

The other tent, the other love.

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Onua is drinking from a clay jar of fermented mere's milk while they work, and as they wrestle leather straps for horse bridles, the small space becomes permeated with the sour smell of the brew, until Daine tries to skip every other breath to hold the gathering headache at bay. She has been lightheaded for hours. But Onua's face is gaunt and tense, and Daine thinks she is dealing with her grief, fear, and helplessness in her own way.

"—he's in good spirits, though." Daine is saying, talking around her breaths to keep her mind off the nausea. "Alanna's willing to let him out of her sight, now, too. He doesn't have to stay with her anymore" Onua makes a noncommittal sound, but Daine feels a tugging in her belly as she says those words.

They generally avoid talking about Numair, except for brief updates Daine brings from Alanna's tent. It had been a difficult few days. They had had already reached sight of Legann's battlements when he had stopped short, said, in a surprised voice, "Something is wrong…", swayed briefly, and collapsed on the ground. And since then, Onua has withdrawn into sour drink and brooding.

Daine understands: she herself never doubted that he would be fine – after everything they've been through, to be brought down by a tiny magical crisis would be unthinkable. But Onua doesn't have the luxury of that perspective. And all this time, she has been thinking how she had not gone after him, until Daine returned from the Gods and ridden off in a blaze of glory. Which to Onua means that she had basically left her friend to die, alone, in a willow grove by the river.

And Daine knows that that is ridiculous. But she also knows, while Onua is drinking her sour milk, she won't be ready to talk about these feelings.

Anyway, it has gotten better – he is awake, and conscious and talking all day. And today's update – that he can finally leave, and sleep in his own quarters – makes Daine a little breathless and giddy. It means that, finally, she can see him alone.

"Onua, I'm going." She says decisively, standing up and having to catch herself slightly after a brief moment of dizziness. Onua nods at her distractedly, taking another swig from her clay jar, and Daine swings the bridles over her shoulder and heads out of the stables, grateful to escape the sickly sour smell and the heaviness of her friend's heart.

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The tent and its interior are untouched from when the camp hands set it up. Someone had even tracked down his pack, leaving it to sit in the corner, a tattered, awkward testament of their unreal ordeal. Daine lets the tent flap fall behind her, and makes her way over to the cot. It's dim inside, and quiet, the noise of the camp muffled by the canvas as well as the wards their friends had put up for it.

She toes her boots off and sits on the cot, resting her forehead on her knees and feeling, for the first time in some time, a version of relief. It had been a bizarre and difficult few days. She thought she had been prepared, in whatever way she could be, to face the chaos of their return from the Realms. What she hadn't been ready for was having to do it alone. The magnitude of work allowed her to avoid most questions, but it couldn't protect her from feeling crushingly alone at the end of the day, at night.

In some ways, being with their closest friends was more difficult. Those who had thought he had died once already were faced with losing him again, even as they tallied the ranks of those already gone. And then to have him wake up – and be Alanna's.

Daine sighs as she slides onto her side, simultaneously aware of how ridiculous she is being, and unable to staunch the swell of possessiveness. He feels so utterly hers, she has to remind herself that the pain others feel for him is real as well.

She presses her cheek against his unused pillow, and listens to the sounds of the camp outside.

The next moment she's aware, she is curled up in the blankets, the tent is filled with an eerie purple light, and he is standing directly over her, looking down.

Daine gasps quietly, and struggles up into a sitting position.

The space is dark, and the steady quiet outside means that it is much later in the night. And he is right there, motionless and silent, but odd and forbidding as well. In his hand he is holding the source of the odd light – a small stone object, glowing violet. It breaks up the darkness but also disorients with long, odd-angled shadows.

Daine feels her heart beat fast, and tries to focus on keeping her breath even. She suddenly feels painfully nervous and unsure.

"Hi." She says quietly, unable to put a louder voice into the space.

He is still and quiet, and for a moment she feels a shudder of uncertainty. Was it wrong for her to come here? Was it presumptuous? Certainly before the war she would never have thought of sneaking into his tent and falling asleep in his bed. But things have changed, haven't they, and now she doesn't know where the line is. She watches him, breathless.

In the gloom, his face seems foreign, his eyes up-lit into shadow, his expression unreadable. He is wearing different clothes and moves in a slower, more deliberate way.

"I was hoping I would see you tonight." He says quietly, and Daine's heart squeezes with tenderness, and then lets go with a flood of relief. Because his voice is soft and warm and a little hesitant, the way she has come to know it. It's a cadence special to times when it's just them, in dim and quiet spaces.

"Hi…" She breathes again, feeling relieved and pleased and wanting to say more, but unsure what to say next. "What time is it?" She asks, for want of anything better.

He crosses closer, and places the glowing object on the stand besides the cot, cartwheeling long shadows around the room, and continuing to look at her. "It's very late." He says. "I'm sorry, I was delayed."

She's about to rush out some reply, but consciously keeps silent, trying to prevent herself from chattering with nerves. She's pleased that he was expecting to find her here. That, without conference, they managed to find each other. Like they always do.

He pauses, hesitating, and then says something that makes her heart hit hard against her ribs.

"May I join you?"

Daine feels her throat tighten, as well as her belly, and lower. She has no idea what his question is implying. She doesn't know what he's asking – just that she's in his bed, and it's not the casual sharing of space. It's different.

"Yes." She says, just above a whisper. Not sure what she is agreeing to, but knowing by the pounding of her heart, the racing tension in her body – it probably doesn't matter – she wants him near more than anything else.

His expression, still unreadable from the upturned shadows, does not change. But he begins to undress, slowly. Moving his arms carefully, as though movements still cause him pain, he begins to unto the clasps of the unfamiliar mage's robe. Then, the ties of a long-sleeved shirt. And as he gingerly takes it off, Daine watches the odd side-light bring the contours of his body into sharp contrast. She watches the muscles across his shoulders and abdomen contract as he moves, slowly and carefully. There is still a thick bandage around the lower aspect of his chest.

He stands shirtless, his hair unbound around his shoulders, his face soft. And she's aware that while he has been hers for such a long time, this version had never been for her before. Some version of this used to be for the beautiful, blond buxom lovers of his. But even in her uncertainly, she knows that this softness, this tenderness in him is hers alone.

Her breath has quickened and she is hyper-aware of the hard beating of her heart, realizing there is so much more to him, and to this romance, than she had naively thought about to this point.

He walks around the bed, disappearing briefly from the edge of her vision. She first hears then feels the rustle of the sheets as he lifts up the covers, then the slow, ginger transfer of weight as he lowers himself down into the cot. The bed sags a little, and she carefully lays back down. The glow of the violet stone presses brightly into against her vision, and she reaches down to the floor, picking up his shirt and covering the object with it. With Alanna's light muffled, the tent falls into darkness.

She feels the press of his chest against her back, then his breath, warm and soft and even, against her hair. He draws the blankets over them both, trailing his hand over her shoulder, her side, and finally slipping around her to rest underneath her shirt against her belly.

"Daine." He says quietly, and she feels him speak more that she hears him as his voice fades a little. "I am so glad you are here."

And she would reply if she could, but now, wrapped entirely in his arms, she is enveloped in his scent as well. The same one that is so uniquely his, that no one would ever think to fake. And all their years are condensed to this one moment. Shutting her eyes tight against gathering tears, she lifts his hand from her belly, clasped firmly in her own, and presses it to her lips.