Booker turned his head to press his mouth against whatever parts of her he could reach. "You're here, Quynh, after all this time. I spent so long watching you scream, watching you drown. Do you know what a gift it is to see you breathe?"
Nile curled upward to grin against his neck. He was still inside her, hard and beautiful, as she sucked kisses against his clavicle.
"I didn't think I was allowed joy, anymore. And now this? It doesn't make sense."
"This is what you should have had all along, both of you," said Quynh gently. "This is what I had with Andromache, and Nicolo, and Yusuf. We took such delight in each other. I am sorry that was lost in my absence."
Nile pulled her mouth and one hand away from Booker to clutch at her arm and say fiercely. "It was not your fault. Someone hurt you, and they hurt all of us. But you're here now. And I'm here. And Boo- Sebastien is here. And I love you both. This matters more than anything else I ever did."
Booker grunted in surprise and moved against her as she spoke, and she gasped in response. " I mean it, Sebastien. You're my family now."
"Nile Freeman, you are going to be the death of me," he groaned into her ear.
"I mean yeah. Probably more than once."
He huffed against her again and then pulled back do he could meet her eyes. "I forgot that I could laugh during sex. Thank you."
[CW: More murder and PTSD, edgy and self indulgent. Mood Music: https://youtu.be/O3bfRBassAQ]
Roughly 3 years ago.
What benefit did a tool have that was broken?
None at all. There was no way to use something that was damaged, unless one was to repair it. Pottery was often repaired with gold or silver, the thoughts behind kintsugi being akin to wabi sabi. Life left behind flaws that were meant to be repaired, and not just repaired but celebrated. Gold highlighting where use created a break, turning it into a thing of beauty.
Scars on a body were the same way, badges of honor that blood and flesh had been given in service to a higher cause. At least in the life of a ronin pledged to the Doman Liberation Front that is how they were viewed. The women at the table behind the xaela tittered quietly over the scars seen on his arms and shoulders where his sleeveless togi left skin and scale bared to the air. Snippets of the conversation were caught by his horns, speculation on if he was one of the strange foreigners who were rumored to be part of the rapidly dwindling resistance now that Hein had disappeared. Were the puckered marks from chasing a fading dream, or was he a simple savage passing through and not to be trusted?
In the end, they decided that he must be a savage, the idea of a xaela pursuing a life of honor too strange to be true.
The entire time Khenbish sat there, drinking glass after glass of sake, tail going from a steady sway when the women first arrived to almost completely still by the time they finished their tea and left. The owner of the tea house recognized the yards long stare of pink rimmed eyes at nothing for what it was, approaching the xaela to offer a quiet apology and top off the bottle of sake without being prompted. The man walked away at a steady pace despite the distasteful curl of lips that bared fangs in a silent snarl, the xaela’s only reaction to the apology.
The hyur knew he had nothing to fear, he had fought once too, understood what gripped the man who sought out this place to drown his demons for the short time that the sake would allow. It was a comfort the hyur had availed himself of more than once, and still did when the past hung like a monkey from his back. After all, there wasn’t enough gold dust in the country to repair the broken minds of the ronin who had seen too much. Even the ones with family to tend to them still trembled within their skin when the memories were upon them, ceaseless as the moon guided tide.
The bottle was emptied several times before the tea house closed its doors for the evening, Khenbish not having uttered a word the entire time he was there. His tail never relaxed back into a more usual sway no matter how much sake was poured down his gullet to flood his blood and fog his mind. The xaela reacted to nothing at all as the day passed too slowly and too quickly for a booze addled mind to follow. That is until a tall, busty woman with a flirtatious smile reached out to brush a finger along well tended scales only to have her wrist gripped by scarred and calloused fingers, just shy of crushing force, then flung away hard enough to cause her to stumble backwards into the nearby wall.
The commotion that followed was of no interest to the ronin who was deep into his cups, only brought back to his awareness when a blade crashed into his bottle, shattering it and sending the dregs pouring over the table. Words were being spoken, incomprehensible as the light glinting off the weapon unlocked the flood that Khenbish had spent hours avoiding.
Slowly, the xaela lurched to his feet, eyes pinned upon the unseen scowl of the roegadyn who took offense at the treatment of his sister. The only word that was clear was the forcefully shouted, “OUTSIDE!”, from the doorway to the tea house’s kitchen. The memories recognized that voice, it should be respected they whispered. The xaela unsteadily pivoted and made his way out the door, hand resting on his katana, fingers idly stroking the worn grip.
Khenbish would have kept walking into the falling night, the pale and angry eyes of the roegadyn already swept away by what rose up from the quaking depths of his mind. It was the bright blaze of pain across the back of his shoulders that reminded the xaela that he walked away from an enemy.
<”Foolish.”>, is muttered under his breath, swaying slightly as he tried to find his balance and center. More words assaulted him, but under it he heard the singing of metal cutting through the air and stepped away from the sound, avoiding the next blow that would have sliced across the scales the woman so admired.
Adrenaline was a wonderful drug, restoring balance and highlighting the perceived threat to be more than it was. A katana is only drawn to kill after all, that ‘truth’ driven into his mind so deeply that it was impossible to forget. Another moment to listen, head tilting down and to the side just enough to make out the bulky form of the blade wielder behind him.
Then a breath drawn in.
The same breath eased out.
Movement follows, the xaela’s reach exceeding matching the roegaydn’s by a few, scant ilms.
Blades dance, passing each other without touching.
Red blooms across the roegadyn’s throat, faint surprise showing in eyes that quickly turn flat and cold.
By the time the body hit the ground with a resounding thud, Khenbish had already sheathed his sword and turned away. Walking along the path he found before the other man’s blade struck. Only the sound of the bird singing the day to sleep followed him until a wail of grief sent the roosting birds back up into the sky.
