Poem 99 (excerpt)
Title: Poem 99 (excerpt) (High D'Haran Love Poetry 4/?)
Author: Alsike
Fandom: LotS
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Berdine/Raina
Word Count: 1200
Apologies: Short chapter, long poem.
Summary: Mord'Sith don’t do kissing.
Poem 51
Poem 2b
Poem 92
“Volunteer?” Hally snapped. “No one fucking volunteers for the Mord’Sith. It would be like- like-“ She scowled. “Volunteering to become a baneling or something!”
“I don’t know,” said Cara, consideringly. “We do have the reputation of never accepting volunteers, but why wouldn’t someone want to become one of us? We eradicate weakness. We have power, and magic. We’re well fed,” she added, eyeing the mess in front of Hally.
“You’d sign up for recreational torture just for food?” Hally raised an eyebrow.
“Well, some people might,” Cara said, rolling her eyes pointedly.
“Recreational torture?”
“People volunteer for the D’Haran army, even for the Dragon Corps trainee squad. They torture you as well, just in groups, while we prefer to have a more personal connection with our tormentor.”
“But you’ve never heard of anyone volunteering to become Mord’Sith?” asked Berdine, again.
“Not unless you count the ‘don’t take my child, take me instead’ one, which isn’t exactly voluntary,” Hally replied.
Berdine nodded. “I thought not.”
“It would ruin our image,” said Cara. “Can you imagine it? Little girls lining up to become Mord’Sith? ‘Oh yes. We heard we get to play with kitties!’”
* * *
“How does one volunteer to become Mord’Sith?” Berdine asked, leaning against the wooden palisade of the training ground.
Raina twisted, stepping in and applying her agiel to her student’s waist as the girl glanced up, distracted by the comment. She blocked a stroke from the second girl and wiped sweat from her forehead. “How does a Mord’Sith become a librarian?”
And she engaged again.
“I prefer historian,” Berdine replied. “You, taller one,” she called out one of the students. “Stop tensing your shoulder before you strike. Think of your arm as a snake. Just strike.”
The girl looked at her, expression worried, and took an agiel to the gut. Her arm snapped out in repost, and Raina caught it on the leather guard, flicking it away.
“Better,” Berdine said. “Slightly.”
“I think you’re being more distracting than helpful,” Raina informed her, stepped behind her student and brought her elbow around, nailing the girl in the sternum. She staggered, tripped on Raina’s foot, and crumpled to the sand. The second girl, the taller one, tensed unhappily, likely more afraid of embarrassing herself than pain. Raina made an easy, nearly mocking pass, and the girl blocked it, looking shocked at her own move and almost joyful, and her shoulder was horrendously tensed. She had barely started moving towards a riposte when Raina was up close, breast to corset, and had her agiel pressed to the soft skin under her jaw. Her eyes rolled back and she fell.
Raina sighed, and turned around, wiping off her forehead. The hot D’Haran sun made the sand of the training pit glow white. Berdine grinned. She was such a dark little thing, dark eyes, dark complexion, dark hair, sleek and compact like a desert pony. She looked like the old D’Harans had, the ones from the mountains to the northeast, and the deserts beyond them.
“If anyone could have volunteered for the Mord’Sith, I believe it would be you.”
Raina laughed at her, and looked up, lips parting, perhaps to make a comment, perhaps not. Berdine would never know, because with a quick step, and a move like a cobra striking, she pressed a light kiss against her lips.
And for a moment it was. Berdine could taste the sunwarmed skin, the salt of her sweat, heard the surprised catch of her breath, and then there was a sudden rush of movement, and she almost couldn’t bring herself to counter it, step away, and deflect the force of the blow. But the blow was nothing to watching Raina stumble back, looking at her in horror, as if she had done something unspeakably vile, like proclaimed loyalty to the Mother Confessor, or suggested regicide.
“What was that?” Raina snapped, rubbing the back of her hand across her mouth. But she knew what it was, and Berdine knew as well, and knew down to her bones that she shouldn’t have done it. But even more so, she shouldn’t have wanted to. “Get away from me! God! Why can’t you leave me alone?”
Berdine didn’t move, but she didn’t have to. Mistress Raina shoved past her and stormed down the passage, away from such commictae spurca saliva lupae.
I stole from you, while playing, honey-sweet young one,
A sweet and tender kiss, as sweet as ambrosia.
But I didn’t get away with it: for far longer than our lips touched
I remember hanging from the highest cross,
While I pleaded myself to you, and not even with tears
Could I soothe any of your savagery.
For in the same moment that it happened,
From your lips, cleansed by much weeping,
You wiped it off, with all your fingers,
Lest anything whatsoever of my mouth still dishonored you,
As if it were the infected spit of a filthy prostitute.
Part 5
Author: Alsike
Fandom: LotS
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Berdine/Raina
Word Count: 1200
Apologies: Short chapter, long poem.
Summary: Mord'Sith don’t do kissing.
Poem 51
Poem 2b
Poem 92
“Volunteer?” Hally snapped. “No one fucking volunteers for the Mord’Sith. It would be like- like-“ She scowled. “Volunteering to become a baneling or something!”
“I don’t know,” said Cara, consideringly. “We do have the reputation of never accepting volunteers, but why wouldn’t someone want to become one of us? We eradicate weakness. We have power, and magic. We’re well fed,” she added, eyeing the mess in front of Hally.
“You’d sign up for recreational torture just for food?” Hally raised an eyebrow.
“Well, some people might,” Cara said, rolling her eyes pointedly.
“Recreational torture?”
“People volunteer for the D’Haran army, even for the Dragon Corps trainee squad. They torture you as well, just in groups, while we prefer to have a more personal connection with our tormentor.”
“But you’ve never heard of anyone volunteering to become Mord’Sith?” asked Berdine, again.
“Not unless you count the ‘don’t take my child, take me instead’ one, which isn’t exactly voluntary,” Hally replied.
Berdine nodded. “I thought not.”
“It would ruin our image,” said Cara. “Can you imagine it? Little girls lining up to become Mord’Sith? ‘Oh yes. We heard we get to play with kitties!’”
* * *
“How does one volunteer to become Mord’Sith?” Berdine asked, leaning against the wooden palisade of the training ground.
Raina twisted, stepping in and applying her agiel to her student’s waist as the girl glanced up, distracted by the comment. She blocked a stroke from the second girl and wiped sweat from her forehead. “How does a Mord’Sith become a librarian?”
And she engaged again.
“I prefer historian,” Berdine replied. “You, taller one,” she called out one of the students. “Stop tensing your shoulder before you strike. Think of your arm as a snake. Just strike.”
The girl looked at her, expression worried, and took an agiel to the gut. Her arm snapped out in repost, and Raina caught it on the leather guard, flicking it away.
“Better,” Berdine said. “Slightly.”
“I think you’re being more distracting than helpful,” Raina informed her, stepped behind her student and brought her elbow around, nailing the girl in the sternum. She staggered, tripped on Raina’s foot, and crumpled to the sand. The second girl, the taller one, tensed unhappily, likely more afraid of embarrassing herself than pain. Raina made an easy, nearly mocking pass, and the girl blocked it, looking shocked at her own move and almost joyful, and her shoulder was horrendously tensed. She had barely started moving towards a riposte when Raina was up close, breast to corset, and had her agiel pressed to the soft skin under her jaw. Her eyes rolled back and she fell.
Raina sighed, and turned around, wiping off her forehead. The hot D’Haran sun made the sand of the training pit glow white. Berdine grinned. She was such a dark little thing, dark eyes, dark complexion, dark hair, sleek and compact like a desert pony. She looked like the old D’Harans had, the ones from the mountains to the northeast, and the deserts beyond them.
“If anyone could have volunteered for the Mord’Sith, I believe it would be you.”
Raina laughed at her, and looked up, lips parting, perhaps to make a comment, perhaps not. Berdine would never know, because with a quick step, and a move like a cobra striking, she pressed a light kiss against her lips.
And for a moment it was. Berdine could taste the sunwarmed skin, the salt of her sweat, heard the surprised catch of her breath, and then there was a sudden rush of movement, and she almost couldn’t bring herself to counter it, step away, and deflect the force of the blow. But the blow was nothing to watching Raina stumble back, looking at her in horror, as if she had done something unspeakably vile, like proclaimed loyalty to the Mother Confessor, or suggested regicide.
“What was that?” Raina snapped, rubbing the back of her hand across her mouth. But she knew what it was, and Berdine knew as well, and knew down to her bones that she shouldn’t have done it. But even more so, she shouldn’t have wanted to. “Get away from me! God! Why can’t you leave me alone?”
Berdine didn’t move, but she didn’t have to. Mistress Raina shoved past her and stormed down the passage, away from such commictae spurca saliva lupae.
I stole from you, while playing, honey-sweet young one,
A sweet and tender kiss, as sweet as ambrosia.
But I didn’t get away with it: for far longer than our lips touched
I remember hanging from the highest cross,
While I pleaded myself to you, and not even with tears
Could I soothe any of your savagery.
For in the same moment that it happened,
From your lips, cleansed by much weeping,
You wiped it off, with all your fingers,
Lest anything whatsoever of my mouth still dishonored you,
As if it were the infected spit of a filthy prostitute.
Part 5