Original Fic: Peace Accords
Jan. 19th, 2022 09:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kat_lair***
Title: Peace Accords
Author:kat_lair / Mistress Kat
Pairing: Conquering General/Losing General
Rating: M
Tags: Mildly Dubious Consent, War Trophy, Political Alliances, Arranged Marriage, Political Marriage, Rituals, Trope Subversion/Inversion
Word count: 2,415
Summary: This is not about them, not really, or at least not yet. Maybe it will be, later, years down the line when the war is nothing but a memory and two of them know each other as men and not as enemies. Tonight, their bodies have become tools of peace and union, instead tools of war they have been for so many years, and there is satisfaction in this too, in being used for the purpose they were made.
Author notes: Written as a![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fandomtrees gift for uchihabait. I honestly set out to write some dirty dub-con conquering general/losing general war trophy porn but then suddenly it was all world-building and symbolism and trope subversion so that’s what they got. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Anyway, I enjoyed writing this so thank you for the prompt, sorry it probably isn’t as porny or dark as you’d like! Many thanks for ![[archiveofourown.org profile]](https://p.dreamwidth.org/b164c54b26e4/-/archiveofourown.org/favicon.ico)
HanHathma for efficient beta, all remaining mistakes are mine.
Peace Accords on AO3
The water is the deep green of winter pines, and slick with oil, the thick scent of it hanging in the air, clinging to Tuara's skin as he steps out of the pool. The gash on his thigh is still oozing sluggishly, but the sting of it is distant, easily ignored.
Or it would be, if not for the healer waiting for him inside the door.
Tuara doesn't startle, but that doesn't mean he's not surprised, only that he has decades of practice in hiding it.
The healer huffs. "If you're that out of it, General, perhaps you should postpone." They are young, younger than Tuara for sure, but fearless in a way all the truly good healers are, knowing their worth. "It's not as if the Dagger of Carluthia will dull overnight." Their eyebrows rise in what is clearly a challenge, albeit a kind one.
"I'm no longer a General," Tuara reminds them. Himself as well. "And postponing for any reason short of one of us being actually dead would be an insult and undermine the peace."
"Yes. The peace." The healer's mouth twists a little in something that could be a smile or a grimace but knowing the difference would require knowing the person making the expression and Tuara has never seen them before. He wonders if they are actually Carluthian themselves, but as usual for healers there are no obvious signs of affiliation in their clothing, no hint of particular creed or caste in the way they are wearing their hair. The only mark on them is the double helix tattoo on the back of their left hand, a standard symbol for healers. The fact that it's tattooed rather than branded could be a hint or just personal preference, but Tuara is too tired, too preoccupied with what's to come, to really care.
"Well," the healer says, after a weighted pause. "Seems your priorities are the same as the Carluthian delegation’s. I'm here to see to your injuries and comfort, to ensure that you are as hale as can be for the ceremony."
Tuara nods, biting down on the questions that crowd at the tip of his tongue. It would be unseemly to ask, and he doubts this healer would be willing to answer anyway. "Very well," he says.
By the time the sun is setting behind the long narrow windows, Tuara's wound has been cleaned and stitched, and wrapped tightly in an ochre cloth that somehow manages to look like part of his outfit rather than a bandage. The healer has finished their part quickly, eventually replaced by Halana, who had been Tuara's personal servant for close to five years but had transferred under the newly minted General Lagosi as soon as the peace treaty had been signed.
"I asked to do this, Sir," Halana had said, undeterred by Tuara's reminder that he was not anyone’s Sir anymore.
He too, had been efficient, styling Tuara's hair off his face, gemstones tucked in amongst the braids, his wrists and ankles wrapped in jewellery, gold, copper and amber, to set off the deep brown of his skin. Finally, Halana had draped him in a loose blue robe, the sleeves and hem adorned with a repeating pattern of springlarks, Tuara's family symbol, embroidered with gold thread. When his mother had given him the robe at the start of the campaign, over ten years ago, Tuara had never thought he'd end up wearing it. After all, he'd begun this war as a foot soldier.
He'd won it as the General.
Lagosi comes in. "It's time," she says. There's something like sympathy in her eyes but theirs has never been the kind of relationship that would allow it to be expressed in words.
Tuara nods, and follows her, focusing on his steps, and on not limping. His thigh feels better but he'd rather not stumble when so many are watching.
The Carluthian ceremony chamber is surprisingly small. In fact, Tuara thinks, taking in a quick, surreptitious look around, it seems more like a receiving room of someone's private quarters than something meant for pomp and circumstance. It's a far cry from vast, arching temples back home, that easily fit more than a thousand spectators in the good seats, ten thousand more standing. Given the circumstances, Tuara is relieved. The chamber feels full, but there are only about twenty or so people there, mostly made up of the highest-ranking military, political and scientific representatives of Carluthia. Tuara spots the healer from earlier, standing with the rest. The conquering Polinesi army has done its best to match that but politicians and knowledge crafters are thin on the ground in a military campaign.
The group parts to make way and Tuara walks through.
General Fe'hal si Rien is already waiting. Tuara takes in as much detail as he can. He has never seen General Fe... Rien. There are no generals in the Peace Circle. Tuara has never seen Rien up close, only across the battlefield, only heard descriptions, none of which do him justice.
The Dagger of Carluthia is a large man. He's not much taller than Tuara, but he is almost twice his width, with broad shoulders, chest and most of his barrel like stomach covered in fine, brown hair, a shade darker than the one hanging long and loose from his head. Tuara expects a beard but Rien’s cheeks are smooth and pink. Freshly shaven, he realises. Perhaps that’s a Carluthian custom for something like this. Rien has a comfortable layer of fat over hard muscle shaped by work and war and probably the harsh Carluthian climate. He is also completely naked, barring a leather kilt, similar… No, the same as the ones Carluthian soldiers wore. Quite likely the very same that Rien had worn as the General. Covering much of the skin on display, are the tattoos; mostly black, and mostly abstract symbols, the meaning of which Tuara doesn’t know yet, but there are occasional flashes of colour too.
Tuara steps into the Peace Circle. Rien looks up from where he’d been studying the floor intently. His eyes sweep over Tuara in a brisk, almost professional assessment. Then something softens in them, just a fraction, and the second look is longer, lingering on Tuara’s face, the bandage on his thigh.
“Peace has come,” the Polinesi High Priestess announces.
Tuara extends his hands palms up.
“Peace is welcomed,” the Carluthian Cleric Prime says.
Rien closes his hands over Tuara’s, palm to palm. Absently, Tuara notes how their calluses almost match.
“Peace be upon us,” everyone intones as the two of them kneel. Tuara almost loses his balance, his thigh giving out but Rien’s grip is strong and sure and keeps his momentary stumble from being noticeable to anyone else.
Tuara shoots him a quick look of gratitude, but Rien misses it, staring at Tuara’s thigh, forehead creased in what could be displeasure but what Tuara is reasonably sure is genuine concern. It’s an encouraging sign.
Around them, the ceremony continues, mostly without their input. That will come later. Right now, there is incense and chanting, a lot of formal pledges of allegiance. To their credit, the Carluthian delegation doesn’t sound too resentful about making them. They fought a good fight but being annexed to the Polinesi Federation comes with its own, not inconsiderable, benefits.
Tuara is one of them. Well. He is the symbol of them; the victorious general given in service of the defeated one, as the Polinesi Federation will serve all its nations, both men stripped of their military status to mark the transition from war to peace.
A warm drip of oil over his forehead pulls Tuara from his thoughts. Opposite him, the Cleric Prime is smearing an oil-wet thumb over Rien’s face too.
“Peace in union,” the gathered crowd says.
“Peace in union,” Rien and Tuara repeat. A cloth is draped over their still-clasped hands. There is a moment of silence and then, one by one, the audience files out.
And finally, they are alone.
Tuara wants to slump down but he holds himself rigid, unsure how things will go. Well. He knows, but only in general terms.
“You’re smaller than I expected,” Rien says. His voice is softer than Tuara expected so perhaps they’re even. He doesn’t say that though, merely raising an eyebrow.
Rien flushes. It’s visible on his freshly shorn face and oddly satisfying. “I didn’t mean it as an insult,” he rushes to explain. “I just meant… Your reputation paints you as a giant, a sword master, and a strategic genius.”
Tuara’s other eyebrow joins its mate. “Well,” he says, “I am two of those things.” It’s probably snarkier than is strictly speaking wise, but Rien seems to like it.
“Yes.” He huffs in laughter that isn’t nearly as bitter as it could be. “Guess our roles would be reversed if you weren’t.”
Tuara inclines his head in acknowledgement and then decides to keep it down. He is here to serve, perhaps he should start by at least making a show of acquiescence.
Rien’s hand comes up, fingers sliding over Tuara’s braids, thumb rubbing at the gems and pearls. “Treasure of Polinesi,” he murmurs the title of the Peace Gift, treasure of the conquering nation. “Songbird of War.” Tuara blinks. This one is a title given to him by his soldiers, an unofficial moniker that he didn’t expect to be known beyond his own people.
Rien must notice his surprise because he elaborates. “Word travels. On the battlefield it flies.” He lets Tuara’s braids slip through his fingers and lays two of them over his bandaged thigh. For a nauseating moment Tuara fears he will press down; an easy cruelty to do, one Tuara can’t contest, one he perhaps even deserves. He’s killed enough of Rien’s comrades for that to be the least of the price he could extract.
But there is no weight behind the touch. “You are injured,” Rien observes. “Come on, let’s get up. My knees are killing me and I bet the position hasn’t done wonders to your wound.” He pulls Tuara to his feet and steps out of the Peace Circle, looking at him expectantly.
Tuara follows. “It’s fine,” he says, ignoring the low throb of pain. It’s not serious. “Your healers are gifted.”
Rien huffs in silent laughter again, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Gadarai is, at least. They’re my cousin.”
“Ah.” Tuara quirks a smile. Figures. He can see the family resemblance now; the same powerful build, the same colour of hair.
“Come, Songbird.” Rien holds out a hand. “Time to seal the Peace.”
Tuara takes it.
***
The Dagger of Carluthia is sheathed on the Third Night of the Fifth Tide, while the ink is still drying on the Peace Accords and the Red Moon crests the snow-capped mountains. His body heaves with deep breaths, rising and falling like the ocean under Tuara’s hands as he leans on it for leverage, sweat dripping down his chest.
Their coupling is almost silent, punctuated only with occasional groans, the slick sound of flesh sliding over flesh. The pleasure of it is distant; there but muted, incidental. This is not about them, not really, or at least not yet. Maybe it will be, later, years down the line when the war is nothing but a memory and two of them know each other as men and not as enemies. But tonight, Tuara has taken Rien into his body, Polinesi subsuming Carluthia, open and easy now that the fighting is over.
Rien’s hands are hard on his hips, carefully avoiding his wounded thigh, even now in the heat of, if not passion, then at least duty. Their bodies have become tools of peace and union, instead tools of war they have been for so many years, and there is satisfaction in this too, in being used for the purpose they were made. The position – Tuara astride the stranger to whom he is bound, riding him to the furs with the same dedication he drove his troops through the Carluthian defence line – puts strain on his injured leg but pain too is part of what Tuara has pledged to give, like pleasure. Like purpose.
Underneath him, Rien curses, mouth open as if the words have forced their way out without his consent. Tuara doesn’t expect it, so Rien’s fist closing around him takes him by surprise. He gasps, back arching, and spills over Rien’s thick fingers, over the map of scars and tattoos on his chest, Rien’s own release pulsing warm and wet inside him.
It is done. Peace be upon us.
***
After, Rien sleeps.
Tuara does not.
The Red Moon has been replaced by her little sister, and a smaller, golden sickle is cresting the mountain tops, visible through the windows of Rien’s bedchambers. Tuara’s earlier thought that the rooms looked more like a large apartment than a ceremonial space had been correct. These are Rien’s rooms. Tuara’s now too, provided Rien wants to keep him here after the first season of peace has passed.
Tuara glances at the bed from where he is standing by the balcony doors, his embroidered robe hanging open, Rien’s spend still leaking down the backs of his thighs. Maybe he should be hoping for a union only in name, for Rien to send him back to Polinesi and his mother’s house once propriety and custom allow. Maybe that is what Halana and Lagosi and all the other conquering Polinesi wish for him, even now. Maybe Rien’s healer cousin does too, for who wants family shackled with a political union, even though each military officer knows that to be a possible price of promotion.
And yet… Tuara watches as Rien turns in his sleep, arm reaching across the empty space next to him, searching. His broad face scrunches unhappily. There’s a tattoo of a bird, small and bright with yellow and green feathers, flying across his hip. Tuara doesn’t know what kind of bird it is or why Rien has it, but he can’t help but think of it as a sign. A good one.
Shrugging out of his robe once more, Tuara climbs back into the bed, pulling the furs over them both, unsurprised when Rien’s arm wraps around his waist and he drags him close with a satisfied grunt.
Maybe the price of peace will be easier to pay than he anticipated. Maybe the prize of peace will be a true union. Tuara is willing to find out.
***
Title: Peace Accords
Author:
kat_lair / Mistress KatPairing: Conquering General/Losing General
Rating: M
Tags: Mildly Dubious Consent, War Trophy, Political Alliances, Arranged Marriage, Political Marriage, Rituals, Trope Subversion/Inversion
Word count: 2,415
Summary: This is not about them, not really, or at least not yet. Maybe it will be, later, years down the line when the war is nothing but a memory and two of them know each other as men and not as enemies. Tonight, their bodies have become tools of peace and union, instead tools of war they have been for so many years, and there is satisfaction in this too, in being used for the purpose they were made.
Author notes: Written as a
fandomtrees gift for uchihabait. I honestly set out to write some dirty dub-con conquering general/losing general war trophy porn but then suddenly it was all world-building and symbolism and trope subversion so that’s what they got. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Anyway, I enjoyed writing this so thank you for the prompt, sorry it probably isn’t as porny or dark as you’d like! Many thanks for Peace Accords on AO3
The water is the deep green of winter pines, and slick with oil, the thick scent of it hanging in the air, clinging to Tuara's skin as he steps out of the pool. The gash on his thigh is still oozing sluggishly, but the sting of it is distant, easily ignored.
Or it would be, if not for the healer waiting for him inside the door.
Tuara doesn't startle, but that doesn't mean he's not surprised, only that he has decades of practice in hiding it.
The healer huffs. "If you're that out of it, General, perhaps you should postpone." They are young, younger than Tuara for sure, but fearless in a way all the truly good healers are, knowing their worth. "It's not as if the Dagger of Carluthia will dull overnight." Their eyebrows rise in what is clearly a challenge, albeit a kind one.
"I'm no longer a General," Tuara reminds them. Himself as well. "And postponing for any reason short of one of us being actually dead would be an insult and undermine the peace."
"Yes. The peace." The healer's mouth twists a little in something that could be a smile or a grimace but knowing the difference would require knowing the person making the expression and Tuara has never seen them before. He wonders if they are actually Carluthian themselves, but as usual for healers there are no obvious signs of affiliation in their clothing, no hint of particular creed or caste in the way they are wearing their hair. The only mark on them is the double helix tattoo on the back of their left hand, a standard symbol for healers. The fact that it's tattooed rather than branded could be a hint or just personal preference, but Tuara is too tired, too preoccupied with what's to come, to really care.
"Well," the healer says, after a weighted pause. "Seems your priorities are the same as the Carluthian delegation’s. I'm here to see to your injuries and comfort, to ensure that you are as hale as can be for the ceremony."
Tuara nods, biting down on the questions that crowd at the tip of his tongue. It would be unseemly to ask, and he doubts this healer would be willing to answer anyway. "Very well," he says.
By the time the sun is setting behind the long narrow windows, Tuara's wound has been cleaned and stitched, and wrapped tightly in an ochre cloth that somehow manages to look like part of his outfit rather than a bandage. The healer has finished their part quickly, eventually replaced by Halana, who had been Tuara's personal servant for close to five years but had transferred under the newly minted General Lagosi as soon as the peace treaty had been signed.
"I asked to do this, Sir," Halana had said, undeterred by Tuara's reminder that he was not anyone’s Sir anymore.
He too, had been efficient, styling Tuara's hair off his face, gemstones tucked in amongst the braids, his wrists and ankles wrapped in jewellery, gold, copper and amber, to set off the deep brown of his skin. Finally, Halana had draped him in a loose blue robe, the sleeves and hem adorned with a repeating pattern of springlarks, Tuara's family symbol, embroidered with gold thread. When his mother had given him the robe at the start of the campaign, over ten years ago, Tuara had never thought he'd end up wearing it. After all, he'd begun this war as a foot soldier.
He'd won it as the General.
Lagosi comes in. "It's time," she says. There's something like sympathy in her eyes but theirs has never been the kind of relationship that would allow it to be expressed in words.
Tuara nods, and follows her, focusing on his steps, and on not limping. His thigh feels better but he'd rather not stumble when so many are watching.
The Carluthian ceremony chamber is surprisingly small. In fact, Tuara thinks, taking in a quick, surreptitious look around, it seems more like a receiving room of someone's private quarters than something meant for pomp and circumstance. It's a far cry from vast, arching temples back home, that easily fit more than a thousand spectators in the good seats, ten thousand more standing. Given the circumstances, Tuara is relieved. The chamber feels full, but there are only about twenty or so people there, mostly made up of the highest-ranking military, political and scientific representatives of Carluthia. Tuara spots the healer from earlier, standing with the rest. The conquering Polinesi army has done its best to match that but politicians and knowledge crafters are thin on the ground in a military campaign.
The group parts to make way and Tuara walks through.
General Fe'hal si Rien is already waiting. Tuara takes in as much detail as he can. He has never seen General Fe... Rien. There are no generals in the Peace Circle. Tuara has never seen Rien up close, only across the battlefield, only heard descriptions, none of which do him justice.
The Dagger of Carluthia is a large man. He's not much taller than Tuara, but he is almost twice his width, with broad shoulders, chest and most of his barrel like stomach covered in fine, brown hair, a shade darker than the one hanging long and loose from his head. Tuara expects a beard but Rien’s cheeks are smooth and pink. Freshly shaven, he realises. Perhaps that’s a Carluthian custom for something like this. Rien has a comfortable layer of fat over hard muscle shaped by work and war and probably the harsh Carluthian climate. He is also completely naked, barring a leather kilt, similar… No, the same as the ones Carluthian soldiers wore. Quite likely the very same that Rien had worn as the General. Covering much of the skin on display, are the tattoos; mostly black, and mostly abstract symbols, the meaning of which Tuara doesn’t know yet, but there are occasional flashes of colour too.
Tuara steps into the Peace Circle. Rien looks up from where he’d been studying the floor intently. His eyes sweep over Tuara in a brisk, almost professional assessment. Then something softens in them, just a fraction, and the second look is longer, lingering on Tuara’s face, the bandage on his thigh.
“Peace has come,” the Polinesi High Priestess announces.
Tuara extends his hands palms up.
“Peace is welcomed,” the Carluthian Cleric Prime says.
Rien closes his hands over Tuara’s, palm to palm. Absently, Tuara notes how their calluses almost match.
“Peace be upon us,” everyone intones as the two of them kneel. Tuara almost loses his balance, his thigh giving out but Rien’s grip is strong and sure and keeps his momentary stumble from being noticeable to anyone else.
Tuara shoots him a quick look of gratitude, but Rien misses it, staring at Tuara’s thigh, forehead creased in what could be displeasure but what Tuara is reasonably sure is genuine concern. It’s an encouraging sign.
Around them, the ceremony continues, mostly without their input. That will come later. Right now, there is incense and chanting, a lot of formal pledges of allegiance. To their credit, the Carluthian delegation doesn’t sound too resentful about making them. They fought a good fight but being annexed to the Polinesi Federation comes with its own, not inconsiderable, benefits.
Tuara is one of them. Well. He is the symbol of them; the victorious general given in service of the defeated one, as the Polinesi Federation will serve all its nations, both men stripped of their military status to mark the transition from war to peace.
A warm drip of oil over his forehead pulls Tuara from his thoughts. Opposite him, the Cleric Prime is smearing an oil-wet thumb over Rien’s face too.
“Peace in union,” the gathered crowd says.
“Peace in union,” Rien and Tuara repeat. A cloth is draped over their still-clasped hands. There is a moment of silence and then, one by one, the audience files out.
And finally, they are alone.
Tuara wants to slump down but he holds himself rigid, unsure how things will go. Well. He knows, but only in general terms.
“You’re smaller than I expected,” Rien says. His voice is softer than Tuara expected so perhaps they’re even. He doesn’t say that though, merely raising an eyebrow.
Rien flushes. It’s visible on his freshly shorn face and oddly satisfying. “I didn’t mean it as an insult,” he rushes to explain. “I just meant… Your reputation paints you as a giant, a sword master, and a strategic genius.”
Tuara’s other eyebrow joins its mate. “Well,” he says, “I am two of those things.” It’s probably snarkier than is strictly speaking wise, but Rien seems to like it.
“Yes.” He huffs in laughter that isn’t nearly as bitter as it could be. “Guess our roles would be reversed if you weren’t.”
Tuara inclines his head in acknowledgement and then decides to keep it down. He is here to serve, perhaps he should start by at least making a show of acquiescence.
Rien’s hand comes up, fingers sliding over Tuara’s braids, thumb rubbing at the gems and pearls. “Treasure of Polinesi,” he murmurs the title of the Peace Gift, treasure of the conquering nation. “Songbird of War.” Tuara blinks. This one is a title given to him by his soldiers, an unofficial moniker that he didn’t expect to be known beyond his own people.
Rien must notice his surprise because he elaborates. “Word travels. On the battlefield it flies.” He lets Tuara’s braids slip through his fingers and lays two of them over his bandaged thigh. For a nauseating moment Tuara fears he will press down; an easy cruelty to do, one Tuara can’t contest, one he perhaps even deserves. He’s killed enough of Rien’s comrades for that to be the least of the price he could extract.
But there is no weight behind the touch. “You are injured,” Rien observes. “Come on, let’s get up. My knees are killing me and I bet the position hasn’t done wonders to your wound.” He pulls Tuara to his feet and steps out of the Peace Circle, looking at him expectantly.
Tuara follows. “It’s fine,” he says, ignoring the low throb of pain. It’s not serious. “Your healers are gifted.”
Rien huffs in silent laughter again, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Gadarai is, at least. They’re my cousin.”
“Ah.” Tuara quirks a smile. Figures. He can see the family resemblance now; the same powerful build, the same colour of hair.
“Come, Songbird.” Rien holds out a hand. “Time to seal the Peace.”
Tuara takes it.
***
The Dagger of Carluthia is sheathed on the Third Night of the Fifth Tide, while the ink is still drying on the Peace Accords and the Red Moon crests the snow-capped mountains. His body heaves with deep breaths, rising and falling like the ocean under Tuara’s hands as he leans on it for leverage, sweat dripping down his chest.
Their coupling is almost silent, punctuated only with occasional groans, the slick sound of flesh sliding over flesh. The pleasure of it is distant; there but muted, incidental. This is not about them, not really, or at least not yet. Maybe it will be, later, years down the line when the war is nothing but a memory and two of them know each other as men and not as enemies. But tonight, Tuara has taken Rien into his body, Polinesi subsuming Carluthia, open and easy now that the fighting is over.
Rien’s hands are hard on his hips, carefully avoiding his wounded thigh, even now in the heat of, if not passion, then at least duty. Their bodies have become tools of peace and union, instead tools of war they have been for so many years, and there is satisfaction in this too, in being used for the purpose they were made. The position – Tuara astride the stranger to whom he is bound, riding him to the furs with the same dedication he drove his troops through the Carluthian defence line – puts strain on his injured leg but pain too is part of what Tuara has pledged to give, like pleasure. Like purpose.
Underneath him, Rien curses, mouth open as if the words have forced their way out without his consent. Tuara doesn’t expect it, so Rien’s fist closing around him takes him by surprise. He gasps, back arching, and spills over Rien’s thick fingers, over the map of scars and tattoos on his chest, Rien’s own release pulsing warm and wet inside him.
It is done. Peace be upon us.
***
After, Rien sleeps.
Tuara does not.
The Red Moon has been replaced by her little sister, and a smaller, golden sickle is cresting the mountain tops, visible through the windows of Rien’s bedchambers. Tuara’s earlier thought that the rooms looked more like a large apartment than a ceremonial space had been correct. These are Rien’s rooms. Tuara’s now too, provided Rien wants to keep him here after the first season of peace has passed.
Tuara glances at the bed from where he is standing by the balcony doors, his embroidered robe hanging open, Rien’s spend still leaking down the backs of his thighs. Maybe he should be hoping for a union only in name, for Rien to send him back to Polinesi and his mother’s house once propriety and custom allow. Maybe that is what Halana and Lagosi and all the other conquering Polinesi wish for him, even now. Maybe Rien’s healer cousin does too, for who wants family shackled with a political union, even though each military officer knows that to be a possible price of promotion.
And yet… Tuara watches as Rien turns in his sleep, arm reaching across the empty space next to him, searching. His broad face scrunches unhappily. There’s a tattoo of a bird, small and bright with yellow and green feathers, flying across his hip. Tuara doesn’t know what kind of bird it is or why Rien has it, but he can’t help but think of it as a sign. A good one.
Shrugging out of his robe once more, Tuara climbs back into the bed, pulling the furs over them both, unsurprised when Rien’s arm wraps around his waist and he drags him close with a satisfied grunt.
Maybe the price of peace will be easier to pay than he anticipated. Maybe the prize of peace will be a true union. Tuara is willing to find out.
***
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on 2022-01-21 12:38 am (UTC)no subject
on 2022-01-22 12:04 pm (UTC)