Poem 51
Title: Poem 51
Author: Alsike
Fandom: LotS
Rating: PG
Pairing: Berdine/Raina
Word Count: 1011
Apologies: Just a scene, dashed off when I should be doing my semantics final. I am rather ill-versed in both the canons, so count it AU if it must be, but call it a possibility. The poem, badly translated and foolishly used, belongs to Catullus (who stole most of it from Sappho anyways).
Summary: Mord'Sith. In a Library.
“You’re a… strange Mord’Sith.”
Berdine glanced up from her books. There was someone in the library with her, someone she didn’t recognize. Well, she was a sister, petite, dark haired, her casual brown leather fitting her form like a glove. She must be one of the Mord’Sith who had been called down to the People’s Palace for the coronation of Lord Rahl.
“I think,” Berdine said, musingly, distracted by the flicker of amusement in the woman’s dark eyes. “That much time is wasted repeating the same mistakes. Just like reconnaissance, research provides knowledge, and knowledge provides power.”
The woman arched an eyebrow. She leaned over and peered at the text Berdine had been perusing before she had drawn attention to herself.
“And this? It contains knowledge that provides power?”
Berdine glanced down at the page and smiled slightly to herself. Perhaps she had been caught out. “Mmm, knowledge that provides… pleasure, at least.”
“Indeed?” The woman hoisted herself onto the desk and crossed her legs. “Enlighten me.”
It was a challenge, but it was a teasing one. “It’s in High D’haran.”
“A loose translation will suffice.”
Berdine looked at her, the dark eyes in the dark complexion, her intense interest. And it was different that she was a stranger. With all the Mord’Sith who lived in the palace, there was a hierarchy, challenged and rewritten with breaking and battle almost daily, but she had no knowledge of this woman’s rank in comparison to hers, just the knowledge of her easy confidence, and something that was not quite respect, but almost as unfamiliar.
“If you wish.” She glanced down. She knew the poem well enough she hardly had to read the words. It was… pleasure reading. “He, to me, seems equal to a god,” she began. There was a short noise of derision from her audience, she ignored it and continued. “He, if it is not blasphemy, surpasses the gods. He, who is always sitting across from you, watching, and listening to your sweet laughter. Pity me, because all of this rips my senses from me. For when I look at you, at that very moment, nothing is left of me.”
She glanced up. The woman’s eyes were intent, face slack, listening.
“My tongue is struck motionless, a fine flame burns through my limbs. My ears ring with their own sound, and both eyes go dim as if by night.” Berdine looked up again, breaking the woman’s attention with a smile. “And then the recipient replies.”
The woman cocked her head, looking a little confused, but not speaking.
“Leisure,” Berdine read, her tone a little sharper, letting her amusement show through. “Is troublesome to you. You exult in it too much, and are far too eager for it. Leisure has, at one time, destroyed both kings and cities.”
The woman on the desk tipped her head back and laughed. “I’m sorry for the poet,” she said, when she had finished. “His lady love did not appreciate his work.”
“Maybe,” Berdine replied. “But perhaps their love was the better for her getting down off the pedestal.”
“Perhaps.” The woman slipped off the desk, landing lightly on her feet. “Well, I will leave you to your search for knowledge, sister.”
Berdine nodded, but she didn’t look away as woman in her clean brown leather moved to the door. Her dark braid, as thick as Berdine’s wrist, swung with the motion of her walk, but it wasn’t quite the stalk of a Mord’Sith on the attack, a little too much swing to the hips. Berdine wondered, just momentarily, what she would look like with the thick black waves of her hair loose and falling down her back.
At the door, closing it gently behind her, the woman glanced back. She met Berdine’s evaluating gaze, and defended with a small smile.
“I hope you haven’t let that love poetry get into your head,” she remarked, and Berdine gaped at the accusation.
“Just- just an intellectual exercise,” she managed, barely without stuttering.
“Of course,” the woman replied, with a grin and an amused flick of her eyebrows. She shut the door behind her, and Berdine was alone in the library again.
She leaned back in her chair, eyes rolling up to the ceiling. “Master Rahl guide me,” she muttered, and squeezed the handle of her Agiel. Still, she grinned absently at the molded bust of Alric Rahl above the bookshelves, the encounter held some potential for a more prurient sequel at least.
A few days later she was called to report to the Lord Rahl. On the threshold, she froze. The woman was there, red leather this time, standing at attention, listening intently to every word that came from their master’s mouth. But she wasn’t listening, the way she had before, to the words behind the words. And Berdine knew she should not have noticed that, she should not have cared.
“Ah, my dear bookworm, Mistress Berdine!” The Lord Rahl greeted her and called her in. She looked to him as she entered, but she could not control the small flicker of her gaze to his companion. The woman was watching her, her expression still, but her eyes had changed from obedience to amusement. Berdine was never sure why people were so amused by the antics of this Lord Rahl. But, perhaps it was not his undignified remarks that entertained her. She seemed to be the sort to be more pleased by the thoughts going through her own head. “Oh,” the Lord Rahl said, with surprise exaggerated enough that it seemed fake, “Have you not yet been introduced to Mistress Raina of the Basilisk Squadron?”
Mistress Raina gave her a long look, the corners of her lips quirking delicately. “Mistress Berdine,” she said.
Berdine opened her mouth to reply, and found she couldn’t. She could only look, as Raina’s expression grew more amused, and Lord Rahl’s presence was forgotten, and struggle to try and regain control. “Mistress Raina,” she managed, nearly biting her own tongue in vengeance. “We met, but… were not introduced.”
Intellectual exercises be dammed!
Part 2