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worldsentwined · 2 years

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Drabble challenge, Cemeteries of Amalo, either 33 or 61! (love, celebros)

(Omg, how did you know that sending me a Tumblr prompt is THE way to get me to write for a new fandom? Works every time, even though the words got away from me and this is far too long to be considered a drabble. Anyway, have some Thara and Iäna shenanigans. Prompt list here).

“Welcome back. Now fucking help me.”

"We beg your pardon?"

Oh, damn. "I ought to beg yours," I said, tearing my eyes away from the disaster on my office floor to fix them on the far more pleasant sight of Thara Celehar. "Cursing at a prelate. What must you think of my filthy mouth?"

From the blush climbing to the tips of his ears, I imagined his thoughts strayed in the same direction mine did. Filthy mouth indeed, Iäna, I could almost hear him say, 'tis thy mind that needs cleaning. I'd startled him into formality, though, and would have to work for the privilege of intimacies, spoken or otherwise.

"I thought you were Thoramis," I explained. "He left to fetch tea, but in truth I think he wished to distance himself from...all of this." I offered a sweeping gesture to encompass all of it: the scattered papers, the ink spots on my favorite shirt, my snappish mood. I had perhaps shouted a bit more than was reasonable when the incident occurred, and did not blame anyone for wishing to stay away.

Thara stepped closer. "What happened? Did inspiration strike?" I supposed the chaos in front of me could look like the throes of creative genius, if one looked at it from a certain angle. Sheets of paper covered in writing fanned out from where I knelt. I'd gathered them into loose piles, but the process of sorting them out had only made the mess more pronounced.

I sighed. "Something more sinister, I'm afraid. The window was not as firmly latched as I could have wished, and now a breeze has made a shambles of my new opera."

“Oh dear.” He surveyed the scene anew. “I don’t suppose you numbered the pages?”

“Nothing so convenient.” I hadn’t even made a clean copy yet.

“And your pen lacked the decency to leave a distinctive blot behind.” He picked his way through the farthest-flung pages, occasionally pausing to pick one up, and lowered himself to the floor across from me. “We’ll have to do this the old-fashioned way.”

“We?” Now I was the one surprised, and warmed by a kinder emotion than my previous anger. “Thank thee, Thara, truly, but,” I hesitated, seeing his color rise again. I’d dropped into the intimate form of speech without meaning to; so much for my delicate dance around his feelings. “But canst not read music, canst thou? And know’st not what order the story goes in.”

Undeterred, Thara spread his handful of pages in a clear space. “Then you’ll have to tell me about it as we go, and check the musical notation yourself. Now,” he held a page out to me, “who is this ‘Tamoro’ and why is her heart ‘broken beyond mending’?”

And so I found myself spending the evening on the floor of my office, regaling Thara with the tale of a doomed love affair between a noblewoman and her father’s bodyguard while the two of us attempted to piece my opera back together. He gave the task the same attention and care he showed in his witnessing: insightful questions, delicate hands smoothing a creased corner. I found my own attention wandering more than once, watching him. Even so, what had seemed an insurmountable task gradually shaped itself into a manageable one.

“Thou’rt a wonder,” I told him, as he set the last page of Act Two in place.

“Me?” Thara shook his head. “I’m not the one who wrote an opera!”

“No, but shouldst give thyself credit for saving one. Or at least its composer’s composure.” Oh, that was a good line. I made a note to save it for a future opera, then returned to the matter at hand. “Truly, Thara. Allow me to thank thee for all thy help. Art hungry?” The hour had grown late, but the Torivontaram would still be open. Or any number of places; it mattered not where we went, only that I not let this time with my prickly prelate pass sooner than it must.

Presumest much, Iäna. Canst lay no claim to him, however much thou desirest. This time it was my own good sense talking.

Unaware of my selfish wishes, Thara considered. “I…could eat,” he ventured, “but you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” I said, impulsively reaching across the space between us to lay a hand on top of his. He froze, and I did too; my large hand over his smaller one, resting on the stack of paper that represented our evening’s work. There was something poetic in that, but I lacked the presence of mind to put words to it. “Please,” I whispered, “Thou didst not have to help me either, but didst anyway. At least let me feed thee.” Even if that is all thou wilt allow me to do for thee, when thou deservest everything. I left those words unspoken, but he must have read some of them anyway. As I waited for his answer, his ears turned pink, gaze still locked on our hands.

“All right,” he said at last, voice so low I almost missed it. “Take me to dinner. After telling me an entire opera, you must be hungry and thirsty as well.” He slid his hand from under mine and stood, then reached out to help me to my feet. “And…Iäna?”

“Yes?” He hadn’t let go of my hands. I wasn’t going to let go either, though I surely should.

The smallest of smiles played over his lips. “Needst not beg my pardon for thy filthy mouth. I’m rather fond of it.”

#my writing #cemeteries of amalo #(oh yeah THAT'S the name of this series lol)#thara celehar #iana pel thenhior #(once again I am in a fandom with a character whose name I have to misspell to make it easier for me to find my own tags later)#sorry Iäna #will probably stash this on ao3 later but for now I'm lazy #ask memes #replies

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