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AelKennyr Rhiano
Fafnir awoke to the smell of hay, chill of wet knees, stiff from being motionless and bent, and the warmth of Nasi's arms. Slowly, he turns his head and rubs his cheek against Nasi's linen shirt, feeling the warmth of the other's skin through the fabric. Pressing his nose against the shirt, Fafnir breathes in the scent of Nasi's skin; a warm mixture of leather and pine and wood smoke and flesh. He sighs softly and feels the solid weight of Nasi's arms around him. Slowly, as he blinks his eyes and then opens them, he tries to capture the last moment before sleep took him.
They were talking, voices low and hushed and tender. Nasi's words a warm puff of breath against his ear, and his own responses at first shy and hesitant. Not the Fafnir that the dwarves within the way station now asleep would recognize. Not the Fafnir that he himself recognizes. For the first time since they met, it is Nasi who was sure of his words. "I shall walk proudly beside you," Nasi had said. "Fafnir, my bold, courageous Fafnir," Nasi had called Fafnir.
The young dwarf who called himself a nobody lays still in the arms of the stonemason, listening to the sounds of the night. In the distance an owl calls out his question. Further away, a wolf raises his muzzle to Tilion's vessel and cries out to the moon. A faint breeze runs through the trees, brushing invisible fingers over the leaves and causing them to rustle. Across the way, tucked safely and warm in their bedrolls, the rest of their party sleep; the snorts, grunts and snores floating upon the breeze. In the stable, there is a rustle of hay in a far corner as a mouse scurries about, seeking food or bits of hay for its nest. Their pony chuffs and shifts his weight as he falls in and out of sleep, or at least that is what Fafnir imagines he is doing.
The night is chilly, but here in the stable, on top of a hay bale, drawn back against the chest of the stonemason, in his strong and capable arms, the night is warm and drowsy. Fafrnir's mind casts back to earlier in the evening, when he offered to help with the evening meal. He was rebuffed with hollow words; cold courtesy that he still does not know if Nasi heard or not. Then to know that Aztryd was seasoning their food -- though, in truth, he knows not how that came to pass-- when he was not allowed near it, it galled him. He shifts his body wrongly and hisses as the healing burns voice a protest. "I was good enough to cook and wash dishes when we were in Gamilfun, but now..now..." He forces himself to stop, to take control of the resentment that burns low. Behind him, Nasi's chest rises and falls in a steady, reassuring rhythm, and it is now easy to forget everything to remember, instead, when this shy and reticent stonemason told Fafnir, "You are mine." And he holds onto the memory of that moment as around him the night ages, the wind whispers, and the world around them slumbers. Slowly, slowly, Fafnir feels a drowsy warmth steal over him.
Fafnir shift his weight again and straightens out a stiff knee. Looking out across the path and at the way station, he can see, by the dim, faint yellow of the windows that the fire inside has been allowed to die down. It may well be a cold morning for them. He lifts his gaze to the tree-line several yards away, and sees a star-filled night. Above him, there are soft stars in the sky, warm and blurred around the edges, or perhaps, perhaps the blurriness was from the tears in the young dwarf's eyes. "Soft stars above me," came the sleepy thought, as Fafnir tries, and fails, to stifle a yawn, and feels his eyes start to droop. "Soft stars above me and tender arms around me, " he thinks, and sleep, warm and heavy as a blanket wraps around the dwarf, who tucks closer against those tender arms.
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They were talking, voices low and hushed and tender. Nasi's words a warm puff of breath against his ear, and his own responses at first shy and hesitant. Not the Fafnir that the dwarves within the way station now asleep would recognize. Not the Fafnir that he himself recognizes. For the first time since they met, it is Nasi who was sure of his words. "I shall walk proudly beside you," Nasi had said. "Fafnir, my bold, courageous Fafnir," Nasi had called Fafnir.
The young dwarf who called himself a nobody lays still in the arms of the stonemason, listening to the sounds of the night. In the distance an owl calls out his question. Further away, a wolf raises his muzzle to Tilion's vessel and cries out to the moon. A faint breeze runs through the trees, brushing invisible fingers over the leaves and causing them to rustle. Across the way, tucked safely and warm in their bedrolls, the rest of their party sleep; the snorts, grunts and snores floating upon the breeze. In the stable, there is a rustle of hay in a far corner as a mouse scurries about, seeking food or bits of hay for its nest. Their pony chuffs and shifts his weight as he falls in and out of sleep, or at least that is what Fafnir imagines he is doing.
The night is chilly, but here in the stable, on top of a hay bale, drawn back against the chest of the stonemason, in his strong and capable arms, the night is warm and drowsy. Fafrnir's mind casts back to earlier in the evening, when he offered to help with the evening meal. He was rebuffed with hollow words; cold courtesy that he still does not know if Nasi heard or not. Then to know that Aztryd was seasoning their food -- though, in truth, he knows not how that came to pass-- when he was not allowed near it, it galled him. He shifts his body wrongly and hisses as the healing burns voice a protest. "I was good enough to cook and wash dishes when we were in Gamilfun, but now..now..." He forces himself to stop, to take control of the resentment that burns low. Behind him, Nasi's chest rises and falls in a steady, reassuring rhythm, and it is now easy to forget everything to remember, instead, when this shy and reticent stonemason told Fafnir, "You are mine." And he holds onto the memory of that moment as around him the night ages, the wind whispers, and the world around them slumbers. Slowly, slowly, Fafnir feels a drowsy warmth steal over him.
Fafnir shift his weight again and straightens out a stiff knee. Looking out across the path and at the way station, he can see, by the dim, faint yellow of the windows that the fire inside has been allowed to die down. It may well be a cold morning for them. He lifts his gaze to the tree-line several yards away, and sees a star-filled night. Above him, there are soft stars in the sky, warm and blurred around the edges, or perhaps, perhaps the blurriness was from the tears in the young dwarf's eyes. "Soft stars above me," came the sleepy thought, as Fafnir tries, and fails, to stifle a yawn, and feels his eyes start to droop. "Soft stars above me and tender arms around me, " he thinks, and sleep, warm and heavy as a blanket wraps around the dwarf, who tucks closer against those tender arms.
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