thesphererp | Memory Share: Alec í Amasa

The nights are hotter here, somehow; heavier than they've ever felt in Skala. Saltwater clings to the air, sometimes in a fine mist, and at times you feel you're veritably swimming through it. The nightcalls are different too. The frogs are shrill, not like the gentle crickets in Watermead, and it had taken some getting-used-to when you first arrived. They were difficult to sleep through. Well, sleep deprivation was between them and the ghost, but she hasn't been a problem for quite some time.

You make a mental note: Return trips to Mykonos should be reserved for the autumn and winter.

But Mirror Moon loves to celebrate. They'll find any reason, and they've seen little enough joy in their lives, you can't find any reason to dissuade them. Tonight's affair was a wedding. After the ceremony and the feast and the drink and the dance, you find yourself lounging among the roots of a tree near the bonfire. Your head rests upon Seregil's thigh, an anchor, because your mind is swimming with turab otherwise. Seregil's picking idly at his lap harp -- which rests against his other leg -- and you can't quite recall what he said a few moments earlier, but your face is burning and you're still laughing. It's still far too easy for him to make you blush.

"Careful, you'll lose your shirt again like that," Seregil says through a sly smile.

"Haven't I already?" You ask.

You look down; sure enough, you've still got your tunic on. That's been rare lately. Heat and all. Seems ridiculous to go a whole night with it now. You grab the back neckline of your tunic, squirming a bit to get it out from under yourself, and sigh gratefully when it's finally off and tossed... somewhere. You're not sure where. You don't care.

"There. Better." You say.

You feel a flutter in your stomach, and you glance up at Seregil just in time to catch his gaze sweeping over you. Was that from you, or from him? You can't tell anymore. You've been part of each other for so long, his emotions sometimes feel like your own. You smirk, reaching up to run a finger down his nose.

"What?" You ask.

"You have no idea what you look like," Seregil says.

"No? And are you going to do something about it?" You ask.

The words have hardly left your mouth, and suddenly his lips are on yours, warm and familiar and beckoning, and this time you know the flutter in your stomach is your own. The kiss lingers, and you feel the hint of teeth at your bottom lip just before he leans back against the tree again.

"You're indecent, talí." You say.

"Me?" Seregil laughs. "You're the one without your shirt at a wedding!"

"Practically everyone's asleep now," you argue, and roll to drape yourself more fully over Seregil's lap. "Hardly anyone to mind."

"I certainly don't." Seregil laughs.

You kiss him again, and you swear -- for the thousandth time in the past seven-odd years -- that you've never been happier in your life.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

A fine way to look at it! By that measure, we should have nothing at all to fear. Just a bit more pain before the relief of eternity.

It is why my people don't fear death. Death brings you glory and honor in the afterlife. You drink, feast, and fight until the end of the world. [There's a long sigh.] But it doesn't make missing them any easier.

It sounds like you speak from experience.

Everyone I ever gave a damn about either died, left me, or left me and then died.

[He also killed a few of them himself, but he's just not going to dwell on things he can't change.]

That seems to be the price of loving. Is it too high a cost for you?

I think I would rather love and lose, than never love at all. If the eventuality is pain anyway, I might as well enjoy it.

I would prefer not to care about anyone ever again.

[It hurts worse more and more every time. He'd just as soon stop the whole affair.]

If that's your choice, then it's a damn good one, and I applaud you for it. It takes a sort of mettle I don't think I could manage. I wish you luck with it.

I'm not succeeding as well as I would hope. I have too many family members here. [It's forced him to care which galls the psychopathic teenager.]

How vexing! What will you do about it?

I don't know. Maybe I'll kill everyone I care about.

[Is he joking? One can only hope...]

Bit of a pointless solution in this place. I've heard we just come back.

That's a first. What's dead should stay dead.

Perhaps it should. But I'm glad I didn't.

That's a curse for the Norse. To never be able to reach Valhalla or Fólkvangr would be a fate I wouldn't wish on my enemies.

I've no doubt I'll reach The Gate some day. It simply wasn't that day. But I can see why you'd think so.

When I die, it shall be in battle, surrounded by the corpses of my enemies.

[He sounds like he's relishing the idea of it all.]

A fine goal, if that's how you wish it. There's nothing quite like the glory of battle.

No, there isn't. It's what my people live for.

[The Norse were one of the few cultures throughout history that actively revolved their culture around fighting.]

Every one? Are there any pursuits considered more noble among your people?

[Sounds a bit Plenimaran to Alec, and he still hasn't decided if that's a good thing.]

Serving the gods is a great honor. The Seer in our village was always highly respected for knowing the will of the gods.

[Until Ivar killed him. As with all things in his life, he couldn't ever have nice things or let them be.]

Storytellers are also revered. It's how we keep the gods and legends of great warriors alive.

Sensible. But you were crafted into a warrior, I take it?

It's all I ever wanted to be.

[The chance to be seen as equal to everyone else, proving himself on the battlefield.]

I'm glad for you, then. May you fight well, and die with honor.

That is the plan.

Memory Share: Alec í Amasa

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