Amika and Samaren dancing in court, a poor kid gets Ideas (post-GotBL)

[guardiansverse]

The Ivory Palace at Hyem's capital lived up to its name. Everywhere under pale arching ceilings, light gathered, blazing from a hundred chandeliers, reflected from the creamy marble of the floor, from pale draperies threaded with gold. Behind the dais, where the Kaiser and Kaiserin’s seats were raised, a great mirror seemed to open the ballroom up again. It made the ruler of Hyem and his bride seem sat at the navel of the world. And so they were, in a sense, with the great and good of a dozen nations come to dance and shine and toast at their wedding. Ladies in the flower and flow of their dresses, men in uniform of a dozen shades, passed and mingled and whirled around the room with the music. They glowed as brightly as the candles above.

Alain was nervous. Not so much for any political reason; for all their long enmity, Hyem and Adalas had been at peace for some time now. The Queen had sent fine and sincere gifts to the Kaiser on his wedding, and had furthermore sent her Land’s Own Guardian with a delegation to pay respects. As man and a Guardian of Adalas, Alain trusted his Land’s Own with his very soul, and privately agreed with his assessment that his own wedding banquet was not likely to be the Kaiser’s chosen theatre for treachery.

But the great and the good – they were quite something else.

His fellow officers were all gone onto the dance floor, to make good on the peace with some giggling Hyemi ladies keen to taste long forbidden fruit. Alain stood back near where his Land’s Own sat, rather too near to the dais, and tugged at the high collar of his uniform. He wished he’d cut his hair for spring the way it was done in his home village, rather than kept it long as per the urbane officers’ current fashion. He wished he’d taken up some of his fellows’ offers to tutor him in courtly dances, rather than practice on his own exactly like the stubborn, proud backcountry lad he was. When he had first gained his Centre he’d felt himself invincible; in his duty to protect, he still did. But here...

A servant passed with a tray full of high crystal glasses, filled with something faintly pink and smelling of sweet liquor. Alain grabbed one and drank it all in one gulp, and, of course he did, halfway choked as it fizzed unexpectedly down his throat. By the table behind him, a lady tittered, a fond sound. Alain was not urbane officer enough not to glance back.

He thought he would die on the spot. It was Hyem’s Land’s Own Guardian, Amika Stattenholme, and she smiled at him.

Alain had never been more grateful for his disinterest in women. If ladies could turn his head, she would have made his neck a corkscrew. The rumours he had heard, the distant glimpses he had had of her when she had led the ceremony were utterly insufficient: she was radiant, herself all in white, her dark hair flowing freely. Every bit not only the Land’s Own, but the noble-born lady who would have been the bride herself in another life. And she was smiling at him.

“You look uneasy, young fro,” she said. “Is it all a bit much?”

Alain swallowed hard. He saluted her, and only dared lower his hand when she nodded her permission. “It’s – it’s all utterly splendid, my lady.”

“Land’s Own,” she corrected the title, though still with that smile. “Do not be so concerned if you do not dance. It is always good that some eyes remain vigilant.”

She spoke sincerely. Alain’s spirits rose just a bit. “Is that why you do not dance, Land’s Own?”

The corners of her smile flickered just a touch. “By Hyemi protocol, at my rank, there is only one man entitled to invite me to dance. And he is preoccupied.” Alain followed her gaze to the Kaiser, dancing with his new Kaiserin. He did not think it was longing, as such, in her eyes. Not for the man dancing. But for the scene itself perhaps, the joy of it, the glow... Amika’s gaze drifted onward while his lingered, himself oddly moved. But, quite suddenly, he was startled away from it to hear her chuckle.

“But perhaps protocol will not be a problem for long,” she said, and gestured with one hand to the edge of the dance floor. “Look there, fro, or you will miss a show.”
The players had stopped between dances, and there at the edge the crowd that had formed was parting. Alain watched a man come through. Not exceptionally tall, nor very burly, nor decked in uniform of any great distinction; but his approach cleaved the crowd like a sword.

“Oh,” Alain breathed out.

The Land’s Own looked at him and chuckled again. “My Fiend of No Nation likes to make an entrance,” she said. “The exit will be worse. There is always some young fool who thinks she had seen a vision."

But a vision it was. Alain had heard as many rumours of Saul Samaren, the Rogue Guardian, as he had of Amika Stattenholme; the rumours had done Samaren even less justice. The Hyemi officer’s dress of black and crimson made his hair, his tawny skin shine like gold. His eyes had a warm colour and a brilliantly cold, shining pride. He walked with the ease of a lion about its territory, and none of a hundred gazes turned his way – angry, wary, wondering, fearful gazes – could touch him. He cut through the dance floor, stopped only to give perfunctory salutes where they were due. His wake was full of whispers.

He made straight for Hyem’s Land’s Own, and she rose to greet him. His salute to her was utterly different, sharp, intent, looking her full in the eye.

“Captain Samaren.”

“Land’s Own Guardian.” He held out a hand. “Shall we have this dance?”

Alain inched back, feeling his mouth dry and heart hammering. Up close, the question of whether Samaren was handsome, as such, was irrelevant. Handsome was too small a word for his presence. It washed over Alain like the storms he had heard that Samaren called with his Guardian’s power.

Amika’s eyebrows rose.

“You are well out of line, Captain.” She spoke up over the mutters in the crowd. Alain thought of more rumours he’d heard. Are they truly lovers? The gaze that Samaren turned on her, the ferocity of devotion in those cold eyes, on that fine and ageless face, would surely have taken any another woman’s breath away.

Samaren grinned like a wolf, and did not withdraw his hand.

Her eyes hardened. A more private look, between the two of them. “You,” she said, “are courting outrage for the sake of it.”

He tipped his head just a fraction, not lowering his gaze an inch. “And who will, if not I?”

She stepped forward and took the hand he offered.

Neither of them looked back at Alain. He watched, hypnotized, as they walked back together to the floor, her delicate hand curled into his black glove. The Kaiser of Hyem nodded at his Land’s Own – if he was surprised he didn’t show it, and from that nod on, the court and guests had no choice but to follow his example. Couples ordered themselves as the players picked up a new tune, able to do little more than give Amika and Samaren a wide berth.

The new music was vivacious, a Lansikaan waltz popular in the Kaiserin’s home city. Three beats, and the floor awoke to whirling life.

The dancers glided and glittered, every one. But Alain, and every soul watching, had eyes for one couple only.

There was a game in the dance: the music cycled, and each cycle was faster than the one that preceded it. The first rounds were leisurely. Some men pulled their ladies closer, other couples exchanged verbal jabs, more and less good humoured as they matched skill. But Samaren and Amika were moving as one body at once, as though linked by an invisible thread. It did not translate to ease: a subtle tension was shot through his arm around her waist, her back under his touch. But the joint movement was flawless, and did not waver once even as the music picked up speed.

Alain found himself transfixed, watching them glide and spin, white and crimson, black and gold. Faster and faster, in their small circle where no one dared enter. He was vaguely aware that two of his fellow Adalan Guardians had given up the race, had come back winded and muttering, turning each other’s attentions. Damn this rank business, look at her, what would I give to be in his place, one of them said, and the other said, it’s her place I envy, look at him.

It was not said in seriousness, Alain knew, but he was looking. Every inch of his body seemed to be drawn into the act of looking. Hyem’s Land’s Own moved with stunning precision, with grace born of total control that made her beauty seem like it was made of glass. But Samaren danced like an open flame. Nothing fine nor delicate there; only fluid power, perfectly wielded, as easy and overpowering as his advance across the floor when he had cut through the crowd. Every shifting of his uniform suggested the sleek muscles under. The faster they went, the more spring and strength was in his every move, as though his body was just waiting for the dance to burst into something other, fiercer. What, Alain hardly knew –

Another of his fellows appeared behind the two already watching, flushed and indignant. I would still be there if she had eyes for anyone but that exile, he complained to the others. They hushed him at once: leave it, you won’t regain your honour; you’ll lose your life.

– or perhaps he knew too well.

The other couples had dropped off to the last. The Kaiser was standing back with his new wife, a strange smile on his face as he watched. When the players looked at him imploringly he only waved at them to continue. In the cresting pitch of the music, Samaren spun Amika in a dizzying final whirl, catching her again as she seemed to come within a heartbeat of stumbling. But only so close. She never fell. They came to a halt standing together, breathing hard, glowing with the exertion. His arm was around her, and she braced on it, taking all that splendid strength as her due.

Alain thought about that arm. He had thought that his collar had been tight before; he had had no idea.

He ducked away from the company of his fellow Adalans as the crowd broke into equal measures applause and whispering. Through the moving multitude, he could just make out Samaren as the Rogue Guardian turned the opposite way of his dance partner, made for the doors leading out into a porch at the far end of the room. One last glimpse of that golden form and he was out of Alain’s sight. Amika lingered a moment among thronged admirers before waving them off to return to her seat. On the way there, she came straight into Alain’s path.

She looked him up and down. She must have seen everything, the high colour in his cheeks, the quickness of his breath, perhaps the subtle shiver of his body as he looked toward those doors. She put a hand on his arm.

“Don’t,” she said softly. “Whatever you think you see, I will tell you, he knows nothing but steel. And you are flesh and blood. Don’t.”

But Alain did.

He left the glow and music of the ballroom behind him and stepped out onto the porch, where the velvet darkness over the palace gardens was studded here and there with lanterns, and the spring air was warm and perfumed. Here were simple wooden chairs in a rustic style, and Samaren was draped over one of them, feet up on the matching wooden table, sleeves rolled up and collar loosened, eyes closed. Alain watched him for a moment, indulging in the fantasy – without a doubt a fantasy – that the Rogue Guardian did not notice him, that he had this moment for himself alone. Catching the storm at rest. The tilt of the head, the bead of sweat in the golden hair, the sight of the corded muscles exposed in the arms, a flash of a pale scar in the tawny skin, all his and his alone to see.

“What will it be, lad?” Samaren asked softly, without opening his eyes. “I hope you don’t come as an assassin. I was promised words if I shed blood tonight.”

Alain sucked in a breath. He couldn’t help himself; he laughed.

Perhaps it was his Guardian’s strength, his Centre that stopped it from sounding hysterical. He still felt very foolish. But Samaren opened his eyes and turned in his chair, looking to him curiously. It was not an invitation, but it was all Alain knew he would ever get. He stepped forward. He was closer now than he had been to the Rogue Guardian even earlier when he’d stood by while Samaren invited Hyem’s Land’s Own to dance. Could smell him faintly through the haze of spring flowers, a headily masculine scent, shot through with a hint of the smell of the sparkling liquor. It made Alain brave as nothing since gaining his Centre had seemed to.

“I watched you dance, sir,” he said softly.

“All the court did.”

“Yes... but I watched.”

Samaren’s eyes narrowed. He leaned forward in the chair. Alain dared another step closer. Much closer and he could almost touch...

The Fiend of No Nation looked at him. Something in the look was measuring, pulling, something in the depth of its focus on Alain alone. He remembered his village, far away near the Northern borderland, where as a boy he could not have dreamed of coming such a distance, being so far from home, seeing all that he had seen. Wanting all he wanted. He licked his lips. He felt the heat of his own breathing. I want, I want...

“I follow the Eastern Covenant,” Samaren said evenly. “You know that it has a law.”

“It also has a law on drinking liquor.” Alain swallowed again. “And the country you serve has protocol on dancing with the Land’s Own Guardian.”

The Rogue Guardian grinned, a small flash in the dark.

“You’re not too bad a young pup,” he said. Then leaned back in his seat, and half closed his eyes again. “But there are a hundred like you.”

Alain’s chest seemed to squeeze hard, as though his ribs were stabbing inward into his lungs, his heart. Hot blood filled his face, his gut, and lower. It was true. It was too true. He was a country boy and almost a borderlander. His Guardian’s power was nothing next to the Land’s Own, next to Samaren, next to the worldly power gathered shining in that ballroom. He was far from home and if he were to have what he wanted –

He leaned low, leaned in, and kissed Samaren’s lips.

The next moment his throat was gripped in iron. Samaren had flowed up from his seat and now held him up by his lower jaw, lifted him off the ground, one-handed, effortless. Alain choked, grabbed the Rogue Guardian’s wrist, could not loosen the grip by a hair’s breadth. His feet kicked out feebly. He felt his eyes bulge and begin to fill with blood, stared down through that haze at the arm hoisting hm up. Samaren’s face was cold, as cold as the heart of a storm. Perhaps he was going to kill him, Alain thought, the thought strangely clear and strangely calm. It would not be a bad way to die. Some things one could be content to die in the doing. He should have tried for more than a fleeting kiss, to die on.

“What did you think you would gain by this, domé?” Samaren asked in a low voice. Nothing but steel, just as Amika had said.

Alain squeezed at the grip and choked out, “fortune favours the bold.”

Samaren’s eyes widened. He opened his hand. Alain dropped heavily down, landed on his knees, coughing and gasping, not knowing what he said to earn release. He struggled to raise his head. The Rogue Guardian stood over him, faint, strange amazement on his face. Alain gathered his Centre and his soul, and looked back up.

Abruptly, Samaren laughed.

Alain could not say it was a kind sound. He could not say it was for his sake at all. But as he climbed to his knees, Samaren crouched next to him. So close once more, so close, that Alain could feel the heat of his body, could see, up close, where the kiss had brought blood to colour his lips. Then a hand fell on his back, fingers in the tips of his too-long hair. The fingers curved, pressed. Forced him just a touch closer, and he went willingly.

“For that,” Samaren said, “you may have this.”

He turned Alain’s head up and returned the kiss, not quick, not stolen, not gentle. Fierce and bruising, sinking teeth into Alain’s lower lip. Deep and deeper, until Alain’s bruised throat seized and his breath was gone, and he had to pull back, dazed, burning all over, staring at Samaren and wondering if he was dreaming.

With a small smile – a smile, not a wolf-grin, obscure and private – Samaren stood. He swept back his tousled hair. Rolled down his sleeves, buttoned up his collar, turned around and walked back into the ballroom.

A wind rose and rippled through the gardens and over the porch, a chill wind, like the last breath of winter ghosting over spring. But Alain remained kneeling there, letting it blow over and cool his parched body. It seemed to seal Samaren’s touch on his skin, its fire within him. A final brush of the storm. He would never have what he wanted. He had taken all he had dared, and received more than he had hoped.

He brushed a hand over his lips, swollen and aching and longing, and wondered what he might come to do if that was not enough.