[R3, Late Afternoon] Cactus Flower [Sarinah]

unwanderinggirl

“A clockstoppin' piano!” Groaned Buro, waving his giant hands in emphasis. The human towered over his three companions by at least a head and a half as they wove their way through narrow streets, the afternoon heat burning and sweltering against their various shades of pale, Anaxi skin on their way back toward the edges of their neighborhood. The respite of evening was still a heavy handful of houses away, and the sun just couldn’t seem to crawl fast enough past its apex.

“All ‘em mung gollies think ‘ey be’n some clockin’ ‘oliday.” Hissed Rhob, a Black Hand wick who’d fled imprisonment as much as he’d fled the fighting, “Ain’t gonna go ‘ome from this ‘un. Moonies.” He spat on the sand, half expecting to watch the liquid boil.

“But they paid.” Smirked the youngest of the four, Yarrin, a young Laughing Sky lad who might as well still been a boch had he been back home among his kin in the lowlands north of Vienda instead of displaced in some foreign desert. He’d been more than thrilled with a pocket full of coins for a morning’s hard work spent moving rich galdori into their new lodgings in Little Anaxas and into their obviously unacceptable status as refugees.

Tristaan said nothing, rolling his aching, narrow shoulders dismissively at the words of his companions, black and white keys still burned into his muscle memory. They’d made it up two flights of stairs with the old wooden thing, and as far as he knew, it was stuffed with their entire family fortune for it seemed to weigh much more than necessary. He was sure he’d strained something from the effort, though it would have gone much worse without the hulking mass of Buro to do the real work. It had all been Yarrin’s idea, strangely enough, to wander the streets on the days more refugees rolled in off the sea and see if anyone needed help moving, hoping for a bit of coin or a scrap of a meal. Whatever else Rhob often wandered off with in his deep pockets was his business, but the passive had been admittedly surprised by the responses of willingness and need, despite their makeshift moving crew being a ragtag bunch of lower races. Desperation bred a different kind of acceptance, and they’d been moving rich refugees for the better part of a week with lucrative enough results.

“Only ‘cause our Sir Greymoor’s gotta damn pretty face.” Buro laughed, loud enough to startle birds from the tiny alley they took as a shortcut to the squat tenement building they shared. A mix of tribal wicks, tsats from Vienda, and a smattering of Soot District humans had made their baked clay and painted tile apartments a community together.

The wiry Hand only whistled coyly, eliciting more laughter from the other men in hopes of coaxing some words out of the shorter man’s budding grin.

“Prettier’n all you lot, oes. Ent no arguin’ wi’that. Hardly a challenge t’out look y’all, neither.” Taunted the passive in return, one hand straying to wipe a river of sweat from his forehead with a chuckle, riding out the snickers and choked laughs as the unlikely friends turned their last corner toward home. The other men didn’t treasure the wide-eyed glances Tristaan enjoyed from galdori faces as he hefted suitcases bare-armed in the desert sun, ink on his bicep brazenly obvious without a care. They couldn’t. The satisfaction was his alone.

“Dinner on th’roof tonight, y’know.” Yarrin changed the subject to food as often as possible, a quality that endeared him to the dark-haired man, “Da promises there’ll be fish, too.”

Buro took the tiled steps by twos and held the door open with a massive, mocking sort of flourish, and the four men parted ways, muscles sore and clothes drenched. Tristaan was left alone on the stairs by the third floor, pausing to wander down the hall toward Ola’s apartment. The Deep Water woman was a healer and a weaver, and though she was barely a handful of years older than the passive, she’d practically adopted his tiny family and many others as her own. She’d lost her entire clan in the second battle of Brunnhold, as Azmus’ Seventen forces burned their way from Vienda to the red-walled school of magic without mercy or impunity.

She watched, taught, and entertained many of the tenement families’ children while they struggled to piece together a living in Little Anaxas and Thul’Ka proper, and she  had more or less made herself an unofficial midwife, happy to make herself available to meet anyone’s needs, obviously his own included. The afternoon was seemingly at its hottest, and her door was open, strands of beads the only barrier between her meager apartment and the hallway in hopes of producing even the hint of a breeze. Poking his sweaty face in without a word, he spied a small collection of children in various states of undress, all sprawled and sound asleep on little woven mats on the floor, his own messy-haired boy included. She daily insisted on giving Sarinah a rest every afternoon--alone, without the clinging of a toddler--and would accept no objections. Kieran thought the healer was fabulous, anyway, and he never missed an excuse to play with all the other children in their building. The transition had been no easier for him than it had been for his parents.

Ola was half-dozing, half-sewing and the tiny witch looked up with a startled smile, pressing fingers to her lips to keep the passive from waking her charges. Standing, the healer silently tip-toed through the snoozing minefield, pausing to pick up a burlap sack from a low table littered with half-eaten snacks before whispering cheerily,

“Home early for you, eh? Benny.” She pressed the bag into his hands, wafting heady mix of strong herbal scents between them, winking as if they shared a joke, “Tea. For the baby. I’ll bring your boch up when he’s awake. Let him sleep. Go give that rosh of your’n a foot rub an’ be a balach instead, ye chen?”

Ola squeezed his free shoulder and shooed him off with a wide grin, sending him back down the hall and up one last flight of stairs, trailing calloused fingers over the cracked and aging grout lines between intricately painted tiles. Even if their little apartment was larger than any kint they’d shared, the scenery was always the same. It was painfully stationary. Nothing moved, and that was hard. It felt as though healing for Tristaan required motion, momentum, and he was still not confident he could ever be capable of producing that kind of flow on his own.

A few quiet steps down the short hall and Tristaan carefully snuck into the door of his own flat, hoping not to wake his lovely witch of a wife should she be sleeping, though he was confident he smelled like a wet kenser and looked just as pathetic. But, by Alioe, he could set coins on the table, more than a few, next to Ola’s tea, and that was worth every sore strand of muscle. His plan was to make it to the washroom in silence, despite the aching temptation to simply collapse on the floor cushions of the main room instead in an exhausted heap, shedding what sweat-soaked clothing he could in the process.

He made it a few well-intentioned steps, he really did, before the cushions claimed him their casualty, grabbing hungrily for his piano-beaten body and coaxing him with sweet words of promise to come and sprawl for but a few restful moments across the floor with a groan perhaps too loud than he meant to be, especially if Sarinah was asleep. Burying his face into a pillow, the passive wished with all his being for a breeze to dance through the open windows and offer even a moment of respite.

Aussiemum

Indeed, if the witch had been sleeping, perhaps his groan would have woken her. That however, would imply that sleeping was possible in the swealtering daytime heat of Mugroba. Even as Ola had stolen Kieran with tuts and waving of hands, Sarinah had been reluctantly greatful. Something about being overheated and pregnant, trying to deal with a crabby toddler who was too hot to nap, it all became a little overwhelming sometimes. Today was one of those days. Once her dark haired son's giggles had faded down the hall, the woman had retired to the bed she shared with Tristaan. Relief would have been to sleep, but the still hot humid air clung to her like a dirty old drunk, sweat beading on her tanned skin and making her hair slightly damp. The feeling was only compounded by the pregnancy, only just into the second trimester. Physical changes not understood by the witch herself caused her to be a few degrees hotter than usual, and it was just disgusting. Thankfully however, the delibilating migraines had eased a bit.

Sighing, Sarinah piled her hair high on her head in a messy bun to get the thick mass off her neck and shoulders. She had worn the linen dress favoured by other women in the city, but even that felt stifling. Laying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, she listened to footsteps coming down the hall. Careful footsteps. A smile came to her lips, and she sat up. Tristaan was home early. His footsteps haltered, before she heard the soft protest of cushions being layed upon, and something of a muffled groan. Moving out of the bed, the brown eyed wick stood, pausing a moment to allow her head to stop swimming.

Padding barefoot to the main room, silver bells on her ankles tinkling softly, she felt her brow furrow at the prone form of her passive husband. He was drenched with sweat, and had obviously worked himself to exhaustion - again. It worried her how much he pushed himself sometimes. She knew it was for them, but the witch cared little for the money or the home. She cared far more for Tristaan's well being. The Gods knew things would work out. They would find a way, they always did. Little Anaxas was a desperate, pathetic place to be. A reminder of the devastation they had fled, full of thick-skulled galdori trying to adjust to the harsh reality of the real world. It made her angry, and she could feel it in her very field. Brushing away the anger, Sarinah sat down beside the passive and poked his arm.

"Y'know, it ent that far to th' washroom kov." The witch teased, smirking at his back with a raised eyebrow.

unwanderinggirl

Tristaan mumbled incoherently for a moment into the floor cushions that had been the soft but dangerous roadblock to his best intentions, mustering the energy to will his aching, exhausted body to move.

There had been a time in his life when he had not been given even the illusion of choice in setting his own physical limitations, when those limitations had been brutally imposed on his young body by various overseers who had very little of his personal well-being in mind. Those had not, perhaps, been the best foundations laid for the passive to grow into, for it was painfully obvious he hadn’t entirely grown out of them. Now that he did have the freedom of his own choices to make, he still struggled to grasp firmly at the differences between productivity and punishment.

It was unfortunate that sometimes the two ended up feeling exactly the same.

“Oes, is so … too far …an’ too hot--”

The passive rolled over with a long exhale, both hands reaching upwards to curl calloused fingers into his sweat-matted hair in a somewhat desperate motion to bring circulation to his brain. He dug his much shorter black strands free of their tied confinement before resting his palms against his temples. His arms felt like waterskins, all liquid and no bone, elbows in the space between himself and Sarinah scraped, scabbed, and dirty. Tristaan offered a helpless sort of smile, concluding by the more than weary expression his lovely witch of a wife was wearing as she looked down on his currently pathetic state that she had neither been sleeping nor comfortable in his absence.

That gnawed a little at his insides, tugging on that all-too familiar feeling of helplessness he found himself daily wrestling with the horns of. By the nature of his birth, the gods had ordained to leave him separated from a relationship with the mona, a relationship that had once supposedly been his much-promised genetic claim to power. He had, over the past horrific and painful handspan of years, grown to doubt whether or not such a birthright would ever have been worth having in the first place. Perhaps the gods had spared him instead of cursed him, after all. Greater still, in this moment, however, in the still glowing though disheveled presence of Sarinah and his child-to-be, by the nature of being born male, he was further distanced from yet another mystery: motherhood. While the sum total of his contributions to the entire life-bearing process felt rather insignificant, though inarguably enjoyable all the times he’d been invited to participate, he was somewhat unable to completely wrap his mind around everything his wife truly had to endure throughout the course of a single pregnancy, let alone three of them. Like communicating along monic pathways, it felt impossible. Perhaps what he lacked in understanding he too often attempted to make up for in effort, whether it ended up misguided or not.

One hand reluctantly left the side of his face and reached to toy at some long rebellious strands that the lovely witch had failed to entirely contain in her up-do. Then he caught himself, chagrined, forgetting briefly the mess he truly was in the presence of the distraction the woman continued to be, “Epaemo, hama, I’m fair laoso an’ shouldn’t be touchin’ th’cushions’r’you.”

The passive began the slow, aching process of getting up, one protesting limb at a time. He made it to his feet without assistance, wavering a bit, allowing his apologetic expression to be worn thin and overpowered by a warmer, softer grin. She knew his next destination, after all. Tristaan said nothing, though, should his wife feel it necessary to remain where she was until his return. He did wait until his back was turned, however, a few steps into his renewed quest toward the washroom, willing his fingers to work at freeing him from his soaked sleeveless shirt like it was a long-dead animal as he spoke,

“Y’ent gonna guess what we moved t’day.” The pause was theatrical, though his tone was not, disappearing into the small room with a deep stone basin for a sink and an even deeper glorified cauldron for a bath that daily reminded him of his previously sufficient though vastly uneducated plumbing talents a country and a lifetime ago, “A piano.”

Aussiemum

“Oes, is so … too far …an’ too hot--”

Smiling at his almost childish argument, the wick reached out to push a loose strand from his face even as Tristaan gave her that smile. The one that spoke volumes without words. He knew she hadn't been sleeping, and his smile was sympathetic. She almost shrugged, as if to say 'it ent that bad', but instead she simply smiled back, allowing his fingers to twirl around a loose tendril floating around her face. He apologized for his state, and the somewhat damp cushion, to which she scoffed and waved a hand. It would all come out in the wash. She'd seen worse.

Sarinah watched as the passive pulled himself to his feet, even in his exhausted state it was hard not to admire her husband. There were things about the man that just spoke galdori, when one knew what to look for. The cheekbones, his slightly askew but once aristocratic nose, even something in the shape of his jaw. However, there was far more about him that claimed wick. They were the important things, his demeanor and his language...he spoke more Tek than her it seemed! His ethics and morals too, a Red Crow through and through. 

 

“Y’ent gonna guess what we moved t’day.”

 Leaning on one arm, head tilted to one side, slight half smile on her face, the raven haired witch shook herself out of her thoughts and stood. 

“A piano.”

"What?!" The woman exclaimed, following his form into the washroom, standing in the doorway with hands on hips and an incredulous look on her face.

"A clockin' piano? Vrunta! What's wrong with these clockin' mung gollies?" Stepping forward, she reached up to remove the sweat soaked shirt from his shoulders, shaking her head in frustration as she dropped the offending garment in the wash basket. It needed to go out anyway. Her fingertips ran over familiar scars across his back, a frown on her brow and hormonal anger brewing on top of her already annoyed view of Little Anaxas.

"Honestly, of all th' clockstoppin' things you need t' take when your fleein' for your life, a piano is not one of them. You spend all day workin' yourself int' th' clockin' ground for these self entitled kensers, for piano's!" Swearing under her breath, Sarinah shook her head. Honestly, they had left with the barest of the bare, but they had each other and Kieran, and they were safe. Well, safer. How in all the Gods names could these people expect to survive in a place like Mugroba?

Without waiting for an answer, almost on auto pilot, the brunette turned to the makeshift bath and began to run the water, pipes rattling and protesting as they allowed the flow from the aqueducts up into the flat and through the faucet. It wasn't exactly hot water, but it wasn't cold either. It was warm, heated by the baking sun itself on the ground and walls. Holding her hand under the water, leaning with the other hand on the side, Sarinah looked back at Tristaan with a shake of her head. 

"Ent they lucky your such a good sort t' help them." She laughed softly, a half disbelieving, half humorous smile on her full ruddy lips.

unwanderinggirl

“Ssh, hama.”

Tristaan hissed, frown creasing itself into the same ruggedly aristocratic features the witch had found herself admiring. The sweat and grime from a desert morning of hard work could also feel like a disguise, a barrier, a comfort. The scruff and the Tek and the bravado, too. Sure, most of it was him, the real him, born of the same stock but forged in a different fire than his peers. The past five years had just burned away more of the chaff.

He turned, pausing quickly in his undressing to press two fingers over Sarinah’s lips while the other hand maintained a grip on his pants, steely gaze straying to her growing, round belly between them before looking into her eyes with a sigh, bare shoulders sagging. It would have otherwise been a relief to have not been the direct object of her hormonal, pregnant anger (which of course happened without warning on enough occasion to warrant a bit of thankfulness on his part), but the passive disliked seeing his wife angry at all, especially when the anger was so futile. He’d spent so much of his life angry at those in power that if anyone knew it was pointless, it was him.

“‘S’enough, ye chen? Them gollies ent gotta clue; most of ‘em been tellin’ themselves they’re goin’ on some clockin’ sand-filled holiday jus’ so they can feel better ‘bout th'mess they've gone'n made'o'things. It ent that diff’rent, jus’ they don’t know … they’ve never … they can’t—” He faltered there, biting his bottom lip to keep his own frustrations at bay as the sound of water filling the tub cascaded in his ears. He wasn't defending them; Sarinah's anger was hardly without warrant as far as he was concerned. At the same time, however, he found it difficult to entirely separate himself from the people who no longer claimed him as their own. The wick he played still often felt like an act; buried somewhere deep inside like a sliver of glass in his heart of hearts was the belief that he was just a joke without a punchline, a galdor waiting for some kind of divine permission to step into the light. He was no more a wick than a human, but somewhere, he still wasn’t convinced he was any less a galdor than those confused, rich fools and their ridiculous luggage regardless of whether or not the mona responded to his existence. Ultimately, he could only ever be himself, which was at present not simply a passive, but also a man, a husband, and a father. It was enough—Gods, more than enough—and if that’s all he was meant to be, he was far, far, far from ungrateful.

Quite the opposite: Tristaan had come to genuinely believe that while the galdori hoarded power, their hearts were surely empty.

His was full.

So full.

“If I was wantin’ t’be nice, I’d send ‘em packin’ back on their ships in shackles, not movin’ their mung pianos prolly stuffed with e’ry last one of their godsbedamned tallies. Or ‘leastways relieve ‘em o’all their luggage so they can live life like th’rest o’us.” He laughed then, both chiding himself for carrying on too long and making an attempt to break the seriousness, fingers sliding from his wife’s lips to tilt her lovely face in his direction so he could kiss her, irreverent of his filthiness.

“Now, let me clean up ‘stead’o’talk ‘bout useless things. It ent e’ry day we get time t’ourselves, an’ it’d make me sad t’waste it.”

Aussiemum

Sarinah pursed her lips in frustration as Tristaan shushed her, however she did stop her tyrade at his fingers to her lips, even if she had so much more to say. He was right though, somewhere in those idiotic over-entitled brains of theirs, the galdori that had fled to Mugroba seemed to think it was all some wonderful beach side vacation. They still barked demands and held their crimson and blonde heads up high, fluttering fans uselessly at their sour faces.

Oh, how the mighty had fallen. 

To his point though, the passive did make sense. They didn't have a clue, most of them had probably never left the city itself. They didn't know how to be refugees. They didn't understand. Still, Sarinah felt little sympathy for them. 

“If I was wantin’ t’be nice, I’d send ‘em packin’ back on their ships in shackles, not movin’ their mung pianos prolly stuffed with e’ry last one of their godsbedamned tallies. Or ‘leastways relieve ‘em o’all their luggage so they can live life like th’rest o’us.” 

The brunette witch smirked, a small chuckle escaping her. And like that, her anger had dissipated as quickly as it had come. It was far more trouble than it was worth, and as Ola had chided her on previous occasions, it wasn't good for the little Greymoor growing inside her. 

Allowing Tristaan to tip her face up to face him, Sarinah's smirk wided into a smile at his words. It was the only drawback to this child-raising business, albeit one that didn't bother her greatly. It seemed that there was never a moment that it was just themselves as a couple. Kieran needed to be looked after during the day, and the time that Ola tended to squirrel him away the wick-raised passive would more than likely still be working. In the evenings, when the little curly haired boy slept, they could steal what time was availible - as quietly as they could - before he woke for one reason or another. Of course, those moments of intimacy were difficult when you had baby legs kicking you in the face, Kieran sleeping in his parents bed in the tiny flat. 

As Tristaan leaned towards her, one hand on his breeches the other on her face, Sarinah giggled and placed a wet hand on his chest as the water in the tub continued to run, making a show of keeping him at arms reach and wrinkling her nose playfully. 

"Oes, cleanin' up. Y' ent wrong there hama. Your a clockin' mess." Behind them, the tub began to reach its optimal full state.

unwanderinggirl

The passive could only mock offense at his wife’s rejection, hardly able to bring even the shadow of a pout into his expression. It was true; Mugroba was an unforgivingly sweltering place practically all the time. A few very precious night hours were cool, almost cold, and the end of the year offered just a breath of cooler respite. But, really, it was a wonder he could do any physical labor at all in the middle of the day in full sun when he was always afraid some part of him would melt or catch on fire instead. It really just left him feeling disgusting and missing a country where the seasons changed with noticeable differences in temperature.

Instead of a retort to her critique of his current state, he only rolled his eyes and brushed past Sarinah’s hand, leaning over the witch and the tub to turn off the water with a chiding sort of laugh all while maintaining a precarious one-handed balance. Tristaan made sure to bestow upon his wife a well-practiced taunting look once he stood, overtly theatrical while removing the rest of his offending articles of clothing, all while keeping himself just barely out of reach despite the narrow confines of their tiny washroom.

“Ah, now, if yer jus’ gonna complain, then out with ye. Go’n make a cuppa Ola’s tea instead. I ent deservin’ o’some unsympathetic audience, ye chen?”

He finally grinned then, stepping without too much flourish into the water, obviously teasing his lovely wife while she perched on the edge of the tub. It was neither hot nor cold, really, though it was tepid enough to feel less like torture and more like relief from the dry desert air. He really wasn’t sure what temperature would have been ideal, anyway, as equally sore as he was over-heated. The passive didn’t wait for a response, already quite confident of the woman’s opinion on the matter, but instead simply dunked himself completely, only his knees bobbing above the surface for as long as he could hold his breath. He ignored the protesting ache in his shoulders to run fingers through his the dark mess of his hair before coming back up for a sputtering inhale.

That was better. Tristaan threw an arm over the edge of the tub and leaned his head back, attempting to take a moment to do nothing before actually making the effort to get clean, remembering the soap in Mugroba smelled like the spice market and that it actually made him happy. Sitting still for a few breaths in the cool water wasn’t as difficult as usual, and he didn’t open his eyes despite the coy turn his tone took,

“I’m s’posed t’ make sure y’get a foot rub.”

Aussiemum

The dark eyed witch laughed in return at the rolling of his eyes, permitting him to brush past her hand and turn off the tap. The brief movement brought them almost chest to chest and unable to help herself, Sarinah bit her lower lip as she breathed in his unique masculine scent, letting her hand drift to the edge of his breeches and run along his hip for the barest of moments. Looking up at his familiar taunting gaze through thick lashes as she perched on the edge of the bath, before he moved frustratingly out of reach.

"Ola's tea, I'll have y'know, is th' only thing that got us through that morning sickness, ye chen?" She said haughtily, a grin on her face as she enjoyed their taunting. It was something wonderful when Tristaan was like this, worries buried for now beneath love and playfulness. Her words fell on waterlogged ears however, as the passive sank beneath the tepid water. Shaking her head, the woman wondered how he did it. How he slaved the day away, and still came home to them full of love and compassion. The tea was a blessing so far, through various ailments. Morning sickness, the clocking migraines, even early insomnia and in some part her hormonal mood swings. Tristaan didn't have to put up with it all, he could snap at her just as easily as she sometimes did with him. But he didn't.

He came up with a splutter, causing the water to slosh threateningly and Sarinah pulled away slightly with a gasp to avoid having her dress wet by the bath. Smiling as he spoke, eyes closed and clearly relaxed, the witch trailed her fingers in the water.

"Is that some sort of blackmail, t' encourage me t' give in t' ye charmin' ways?" She said with a laugh in her voice, noting the tension in his shoulders even in the water. It wasn't her that needed a foot rub, the wick noted with a brief frown.

He looked so adorably relaxed, her heart swelled for the man, her husband. The father of her children, and even more, her soulmate. How far they had come, and everyday she couldn't want for anything more in this life than for him to finally, finally be completely happy. To be like this moment, for everyday, for ever.

Leaning over carefully, a hand resting on the opposite side of the tub, Sarinah closed her eyes and planted a gentle lingering kiss on his bowed lips.

"Because it ent gonna work." The once seductress continued in her best pre-baby voice, not moving from her precarious position over the passive.

unwanderinggirl

“Jus’ that tea, eh hama?” Hummed the passive with a pretend air of disappointment as if that had been the only thing he’d heard his lovely witch of a wife say, though that was far from the truth. He’d heard all her words, mostly, but it was more Sarinah’s tone of voice that he found distracting. She could probably have said absolutely anything in that sensual tone—even talked about the practically unchanging desert weather in Mugroba for all he cared—and he would have eventually found himself incapable of a single, straightforward thought between his ears. He was confident she was very aware of just how much of an effect she could have on him, not simply because he was a man but also because time (even difficult as it had been) had allowed her a deeper, more intimate understanding (and, thankfully, appreciation) of his person. That understanding had, at first, been very frightening for Tristaan, threatening to his conflicting self-preserving and yet self-destructive tendencies.

The kind of personal surrender he’d slowly, sometimes hesitantly, allowed over the past half a decade had been more like dismantling a heavy, constantly moving piece of machinery instead of some stationery, immovable wall.

And yet, the witch continued to endure, one piece at a time.

She was a real rosh, as any wick would say: a kind, patient, good woman whose fiery side was a necessary complement for him. He’d spent so long convincing himself he deserved none of it, and while it haunted his quiet moments that he’d somehow failed to protect her from everything he wished he could have, he struggled to imagine that things could ever be better than they were on a daily basis had their life together gone any differently thus far. Happiness was hard, but it was worth fighting for. He'd long ago meant that when he said it for the first time.

Careful to keep from destroying the delicate balance she’d found as Sarinah perched over the tub to press her lips against his, he snatched both her wrists to keep her from pulling away, holding on with a playful strength to keep her face close to his own.

“Boemo,” The dark-haired passive muttered with a quiet, almost subdued sort of self-depreciating coyness, drawing out the Tek word with sarcastic emphasis as he teased his wife in fair return, grey eyes meeting her own brown ones and an unsafe sort of grin spreading warmly across his dripping face, “I was jus’ sharin’ Ola’s orders, mujo ma … ent intendin’ blackmail ... Me’n’my charmin’ self had other plans—” he paused to kiss the witch back, not quite as gently, either, and long enough to make sure his intentions were obvious … well, okay, admittedly too long. He finally managed to break away with a laugh,

“—vrunta, woman,” he practically purred, flushed despite the chill that was seeping into the bathwater, “Lemme wash an’ I’ll encourage ye alright.”

He slid his hands away from her wrists, slowly sinking beneath the surface one more time to avoid further distraction, if only for a moment. It was too late, really, to avoid distraction, but the passive hoped it wasn't too late to allow it to continue to run its course. Time was precious. Alioe, it was too damn precious indeed, and currently limited by the incomprehensible sleep schedule of a restless not-quite-three year old. That alone tended to stack any odds against their favor far more often than he'd like to admit, but he was at least willing to toe the line while they had the moment. However unpredictably long (or short) that moment was.

Up for air again with a roguish smile, Tristaan was happy to make a show of reaching for the soap, of washing (no, really washing) though he was no longer capable of being entirely focused should the lovely witch volunteer her assistance. He did want out of the tub, though, clean at least, dry only an option. Then, he really wanted them both out of the tiny bathroom and his wife out of her clothes by any means necessary.

((Seriously, the anticipation of "real life" (big fat air quotes there) interrupting this thread makes me laugh so hard. But with sympathy. I’ll leave that to you for the lulz. Wait, sorry, spoiler alert. Too late.))

Aussiemum

Opening her eyes as Tristaan spoke, the dark haired woman smirked with a raised eyebrow, wrists willing captives in his hands. The tone of his voice, combined with the up-to-no-good grin sent a little thrill up her spine. She knew that look by now, one that could stop her heart if she let it.

The soft kiss she had given him was returned in kind, far more intensely and a lot longer than a welcoming peck. Sarinah allowed herself to dwell on his lips, embracing the passion as it built between them. When he finally broke away with a chuckle, the witch pulled back slowly with her heart thumping in her chest and an almost unsteady sigh on her lips.

As the scarred passive began to wash, the small room filled with the scents of the spice market. Cinnamon, cloves...she knew those ones, but there were so so many she didn't know. Still, as enticing as the foreign scents were, her husband was far more so. The wick stood, hands gently pressed to the smooth, small bump that indicated the life growing inside of her to those who knew what to look for. Keeping her eyes trained on Tristaan, her lips pulled into a sly smile, Sarinah reached up to release her raven locks, the dark waves flowing down her back and around her face. Lifting one hand, an eyebrow arched dangerously, the woman pulled gently at the laces that held the top of her dress closed. Slowly, the linen string came undone and the front of the dress fell open, exposing the curve of her....

"Daaaoooaaaa!!!??" A childish voice yelled delightfully from beyond the bathroom, at the entrance of the flat with a questioning tone. Sarinah's seductive expression disappeared with a sudden laugh and a look at Tristaan. Like clockwork, Kieran had woken up, and Ola had guided him to the front door and whispered in his ear to call out to her. It was always the way. Still, it was the life they had chosen, and she didn't regret a second.

Shooting Tristaan a grin that promised things later on when the little person was asleep, Sarinah quickly tied the laces and stepped to the doorway of the bathroom with a huge expressive grin.

"Kieeraaann?!" She called out with the same childish tone. There was a loud delighted giggle before the patter of tiny toddler feet running through the flat and into her arms. The witch swung him up into the air and around onto her hip with a laugh, kissing his dimpled cheek and hugging him tightly. Looking down to the front door, she waved a hand at Ola's small frame. The motherly wick waved back before dissapearing to her other charges.

Turning to face the bathroom, her curly haired son on her hip, Sarinah pointed out Tristaan.

"Who's that?" She said encouragingly, a warm smile on her face. Kieran pointed with a squeal.

"Da!!!" He yelled, squirming and wriggling to get down so he could run to him, bathtub bound or not.

unwanderinggirl

Tristaan envied the ease at which Sarinah seemed capable of switching from one role to another—from warm, inviting lover to kind, cheerful mother. Just like that, with a blink and a smile. Every time. It was almost as unfair as any other kind of magic, really, for it felt ridiculously difficult for him. One minute, he was humming expectantly with excited anticipation, and the next, he was exhaling said excitement slowly through his nose. Sure, it had grown easier over the years for the most part, but … gods be damned if children didn’t have the most ridiculous timing he’d ever experienced in his life (other than his own completely unpredictable and entirely unrelated timing as a passive).

He’d remember that promising, somewhat still-smouldering look, tucking it away for later even as the woman turned and left the tiny closet of a washroom to welcome their son and wave a thanks to the healer who enjoyed his company in the afternoons.

And, honestly, it wasn’t as though there was an absence of joy in hearing his son’s voice, either. No, quite the opposite. Having never expected to hear anyone call him their father ever in his lifetime, there was something unexplainable about the experience, no matter how mundane. Sinking briefly back into the now very cool tub to rinse as well as refocus, his smile broadened as his lovely witch of a wife returned with the eager, wiggly mess that was Kieran,

“Junta, boy! Been a balach for Ola, ‘ave ye?”

The dark-haired wick, half freeing himself, half released by Sarinah, quickly scrambled his way to the edge of the tub, grubby hands and chin on the edge of the wet, soapy surface, “Uh-huh. Benny.” He answered with an enthusiastic opposite shaking of his head, grinning anyway. He squealed with a mix of pure happiness and abject horror as the passive reached over the bath and hefted him upwards, swinging him into the air and then hovering him over the water with a teasing laugh. Tristaan kept the boy from getting wet despite the aching objection of his piano-weary arms and shoulders. Kieran found the whole thing hilarious, giggling uncontrollably, but he did pause to look back into the now soapy tub and add in a firm little voice, “Da, but dun need washin’. Ent dirty.”

“Mmmm. Y’sure?”

“Oes.”

“Didja play outside? ‘N th’sand?”

“Mmmhmm. Lots.”

“Didja have somma Ola’s yats?”

“Fruits.”

“Well, then. It ent such a bad idea t’get a bit wet.” The dark-hared man was dipping just the boy’s toes into the water, much to Kieran’s delight, “Jus’ a quick one, eh? Don’t wanna be smellin’ like a kenser ‘round yer daoa.”

The boy found this perplexing, pretty confident that kensers were exciting beasts and yet pretty sure he didn’t want to upset anyone if they weren’t. They smelled? Like what? Was it that bad? Surely not. Still, the spice-perfumed bubbles were interesting enough for the moment and the young wick nodded his head in reluctant agreement to whatever horrible suggestion his father was making, though he was obviously preparing for a long string of questions about everything until his tiny thoughts were interrupted.

“ ‘Sides,” Tristaan added, though it was obvious by his tone he was speaking more to Sarinah than the wild-haired boy he was now attempting to wash sand and stickiness and sweat off of, “There’s gonna be a pina caoja’n th’roof t’night, says Yarrin an’ th’other Laughin’ Skies. Some fish ‘n some music. Could be fun … for clean bochi.”

Aussiemum

Sarinah stood at the doorway, arms crossed and leaning on the study stone as Kieran giggled at Tristaan's teasing. She smiled as she watched them both, raising her eyebrows with a soft laugh as the toddler announced firmly he didn't need to wash. It was adorably cheeky, but it was best to keep that to herself. The young parents had learnt early that laughing at cheeky things the boy did only encouraged him to do them more...but clocking hell sometimes it was hard.

The wick could see Kieran's little mind ticking over when the passive mentioned the kensers. Gods, wasn't that a lifetime ago? Kenser's and chroves...her smile fell as her memories danced in the forefront of her mind. It was mostly in the last few months, a whirling of fear and panic. She'd seen men bitten in half by chrove let loose on the crowds, their roars echoing through the flames and smoke of a war torn village. Shaking herself mentally, Sarinah moved away from the doorway and came to the bathtub, kneeling down beside her two favorite people in the whole of Vita, stroking the damp curls on her sons head.

Tristaan's voice cut through her melencholy thoughts, dragging her into the present with talk of a caoja and yats on the roof. And music. Oh, how she loved the music. Her smile returned beaming and the witch made an over excited gasp.

"Ooh sound's like a benny good idea t' me, but only for clean bochi. Da's right, ent no Kieran's gonna be eatin' with laoso fingers, eh?" Lifting one of his little hands, Sarinah inspected it carefully as Kieran giggled and looked between her and Tristaan. The witch looked at her husband with a raised eyebrow.

"Hrmmm...looks like da did a benny job, ye chen? Y' look almost good enough to eat!" She said, making a move to bite his hand gently making soft growling sounds, much to the boys delight as he let out an excited belly laugh and tried to pull his hand away. Laughing, Sarinah let his hand go and looked at Tristaan.

"Maybe da will have a dance with daoa?" The raven haired woman said with a cheeky smirk, leaning forward to give him a fond peck on the lips before moving to get a towel for their boy. Kieran wrinkled his nose with a shake of his head.

"Kieran n' daoa dance." He said with a giggle, as Sarinah stood beside the bath holding a towel open for the toddler, and one over her shoulder for the passive. She laughed again, giving Tristaan a wink.

"Oh, so da isn't allowed t' dance with daoa? Aww." She pouted, tilting her head slightly.

"Poor da."

unwanderinggirl

“Poor da, indeed.” Tristaan did his best to overemphasize being put out by the tiny boy, throwing his wet hands up in a mockery of disappointment. He laughed anyway, snatching the towel from Sarinah’s shoulder and shaking it threateningly in Kieran’s direction, “I’ll jus’ have’t steal one when y’ent lookin’. Ye think y’can watch yer daoa allllll night?”

The wick seemed to think about this for a moment, unable to keep from giggling while Sarinah made sure he was dry, wriggling as if he simply had to make the task as difficult as possible or as if he wanted to complain the towel was itchy, “Mmmhmm. M’be I ent gonna sleep.”

He’d already really forgotten what he was planning on staying awake for, but the idea sounded fun.

The dark-haired passive scoffed as he stood, draining the tub and stepping out to begin to dry himself off, making sure to catch the eye of his wife with very quick, almost wolfish grin, taunting her briefly. Towel fluffing about his head even as he was dripping on the bathroom floor, he smiled kindly at his son, “Oes? Not even a wink? Boemo … we’ll see who can stay awake th’longest.”

“Oes! S’me!” The boy hooked a thumb at his chest with a big, confident huff. He was waiting to be pronounced dry, eager to escape before he’d be forced back into clothes. Dark eyes shifted back and forth between both his parents, tiny body anticipating his getaway. Tristaan made sure to dry the floor after himself, finally wrapping the towel around his waist for the time being, not noticing Kieran was poised like a loaded spring.

Aussiemum

Sarinah struggled with the wriggling toddler, drying his little arms in a constant battle of twists and squirms. Glancing up at Tristaan with a raised eyebrow, the witch didn't miss his quick grin or his dripping naked self. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she looked back down to Kieran and the task at hand. Throwing the towel over his head she rubbed his hair dry before letting him free with a sigh, resting on her heels.

"Oes da, Kieran is gettin' t'be pretty big. Might be that he does beat y'." Standing up straight, the raven haired woman rubbed her belly gently before pressing both hands to the minor twinge of pain in her lower back. Kieran's gorgeous eyes glanced between herself and her husband, and she couldn't restrain the soft smile and loving gaze that came to her face. He truly was a gift to them both. The witch saw so much of Tristaan in his cheeky little face, it made her heart swell.

"Alright bochi, y'dry an' done." She said with an almost dismissive waive, knowing full well the boy was full of beans, but allowing him to be a child. The boy would not be a babe forever, and the witch wanted him to know only trust and love.

unwanderinggirl

No sooner had her words left his daoa’s mouth than Kieran squealed and ran away into the next room, arms flailing and full of laughter. Tristaan chuckled, perhaps a little jealous that the boch got his own chance to streak through their little apartment and he didn’t. His hands found Sarinah’s lower back, fingers kneading into familiar aches even as he planted a kiss on her cheek while standing behind her,

“Mmm, hama, we’ll jus’ have to try that again later, eh?” The dark-haired passive teased, listening to the sound of his son enjoying his fresh and clean romp through the main room with a smile. He hovered for a few extra moments, attempting to assist in alleviating what pain he could, resisting the urge to let his hands stray any lower. It took what willpower he could muster, to be honest.

Kieran was discovering just how bouncy the cushions were as loudly as possible. It was somewhat of a blessing that the boy was still so young, that he could so easily forget all they’d been through to get to Mugroba in the first place. While he remembered enough to have his fair share of nightmares, to be somewhat cautious around strangers, he was too much of a cheerful, mischievous boy for much of it to matter most of the time. If Sarinah saw their son’s resemblance to himself, Tristaan saw much of his lovely witch of a wife in the boy’s indefatigable spirit. Without the two of them, he was convinced the difficulties of the past handful of years would have swallowed him whole, consumed him from the inside and turned him into someone else entirely.

The strength and hope forged by love were what had kept him sane, and, more importantly, what the passive hoped his children would remember longer than any time spent in the desert.

Waiting for a bit of a lull in energetic noises from the other room, Tristaan slipped carefully out of their tiny washroom, hands trailing away from the brunette’s back. With one last check to make sure his towel was mostly secure, he rushed to leap out at Kieran with a loud roar and a smile, eliciting more sounds of delight at equal volume.

Aussiemum

Sarinah leaned back against Tristaan with a smile, groaning in a pleasure far different to the one he implied as the passives strong hands massaged aching muscles. She chuckled at his words, raising an eyebrow as though he'd spoken some sort of challenge.

The delights squeals of their son bouncing on the cushions in the living area was a quick reminder that yes, it was infact. The challenge being time, and privacy.

Watching her husband leave, Sarinah's eyes were drawn to the cruel, puckered scar on his torso. It twisted in her guy everytime, a stark reminder of their time in Anaxas, and how close she had come to loosing him. There was no need to explain, anyone with knowledge of the mona knew it had been a bad wound and a poorly executed heal. It was a stark reminder of many sad things, lost loved things.

Shaking off the melencholy, the brunette laughed as Tristaan lept out with a roar, much to Kieran's delight. The sound of them playing, the father of her children and her adorable boch, made her heart swell.

"Come on hama, let's find out what their doing." Sarinah said to her belly with a small pat as she left the bathroom to join the fun.

To the witch, there was nothing more wonderful in all if the world than this.