. . . as you mean to go on
Title: dusk
’Verse/characters: Other; Dante, Vesta
Prompt: 61C "rootless"
Word Count: 381
Rating: PG
Notes: Vesta anchors with larathia; she and Dante have been one of the more quiet partnerships since they met and got together in the spring of '04, as I count time.
They're in a flat, this week, all white walls and cheap carpet. But it had a kitchen, and hot running water, which at the moment was all that they'd wanted.
She'd settled Gwyneth below, last night, before they came upstairs. Horses were unusual in this world, but not unheard of, and the landlords had supplied space, clean buckets and hay without extra charge. Feed, curry combs and brushes came out of Gwyneth's saddlebags (along with her lover's coffeebeans, which had disappeared upstairs with him, gone to settle the rooms as he'd done the stable with carved spells). She'd warmed the water with a flick of gauntleted wrist, then set to scrubbing, not-quite horse leaning weight on her as she lifted feet to check the condition of shoes and clean the fetlocks. Gwyneth's mane was getting long again, beginning to flop to one side, direction changing twice along the curve of the long neck. She'd clip it in the morning, ask her lover if he wanted the hairs for his beads, and otherwise burn it. No sense leaving sympathetic proto-talismans around, even if no-one either of them could sense was tracking them.
Stomped the dust of her boots off before going up the stairs to their rooms, both respect for clean floors and a muted warning for her lover's hearing before she opened the door.
He greeted her with a thick-walled mug of something like chai, all sweet-spiced milk, then sat her on the edge of the bed, still fully clothed, and started unbraiding her hair.
The beads and sturdy cotton threads were set aside in neat rows and coils, abstract patterns in fire-jewel tones against the imitation wood of the nightstand, and he combed out each section with his fingertips before running a soft-bristled brush over her whole head. She staggered a little, getting up to shower, shedding dirty clothing behind her on the way to the bathroom. Heard his dry chuckle behind her as the door swung closed, and smiled herself as she flicked the water on.
The water was blessedly hot, and long lasting--she could feel knots in her shoulders starting to loosen by the time she got out, stretching water-wrinkled fingertips and toes before slipping her bracelets back on and going to join her lover in the bed.
’Verse/characters: Other; Dante, Vesta
Prompt: 61C "rootless"
Word Count: 381
Rating: PG
Notes: Vesta anchors with larathia; she and Dante have been one of the more quiet partnerships since they met and got together in the spring of '04, as I count time.
They're in a flat, this week, all white walls and cheap carpet. But it had a kitchen, and hot running water, which at the moment was all that they'd wanted.
She'd settled Gwyneth below, last night, before they came upstairs. Horses were unusual in this world, but not unheard of, and the landlords had supplied space, clean buckets and hay without extra charge. Feed, curry combs and brushes came out of Gwyneth's saddlebags (along with her lover's coffeebeans, which had disappeared upstairs with him, gone to settle the rooms as he'd done the stable with carved spells). She'd warmed the water with a flick of gauntleted wrist, then set to scrubbing, not-quite horse leaning weight on her as she lifted feet to check the condition of shoes and clean the fetlocks. Gwyneth's mane was getting long again, beginning to flop to one side, direction changing twice along the curve of the long neck. She'd clip it in the morning, ask her lover if he wanted the hairs for his beads, and otherwise burn it. No sense leaving sympathetic proto-talismans around, even if no-one either of them could sense was tracking them.
Stomped the dust of her boots off before going up the stairs to their rooms, both respect for clean floors and a muted warning for her lover's hearing before she opened the door.
He greeted her with a thick-walled mug of something like chai, all sweet-spiced milk, then sat her on the edge of the bed, still fully clothed, and started unbraiding her hair.
The beads and sturdy cotton threads were set aside in neat rows and coils, abstract patterns in fire-jewel tones against the imitation wood of the nightstand, and he combed out each section with his fingertips before running a soft-bristled brush over her whole head. She staggered a little, getting up to shower, shedding dirty clothing behind her on the way to the bathroom. Heard his dry chuckle behind her as the door swung closed, and smiled herself as she flicked the water on.
The water was blessedly hot, and long lasting--she could feel knots in her shoulders starting to loosen by the time she got out, stretching water-wrinkled fingertips and toes before slipping her bracelets back on and going to join her lover in the bed.