NOVEL NEXT Interlude: Among The Linden Trees
Zanasha Jones is absolutely, totally unable to believe that this is real.
As she approaches the swirling, opaque portal which will carry them back to the castle, her newly betrothed lifts her in his arms like a sack of grain; she squeaks girlishly, thrilled to her bones at the opportunity to do such a thing despite the fact that it is merely an imitation of things she has seen Hana-chan do. It feels right, she thinks to herself, unsure if she is justifying or rationalizing and not particularly caring regardless.
Topher bears her across the threshold of the portal in the classical manner, a gesture which is entirely lost on his muscular green bride (because she is totally ignorant of the cultural cachet) but nevertheless pleases her immensely. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she nestles into his collarbone and breathes in his scent -- earthy, vaguely meaty, and with a pleasing sourness that does many complex things to her endocrine system of which she is only vaguely aware. Topher, his tendons and joints screaming, does his best not to gasp or groan as he lowers her gently to her feet. "There," he rumbles -- she likes his voice -- "now let's deal with the fallout." She only half-understands, as usual, but it does nothing to diminish her enthusiasm; if anything, his obscure and cryptic statements only heighten his mystique in her eyes. She is aware that this is mostly illusory and minds not at all, because Zanasha Jones learned long ago that happiness is too oft fleeting and is wise enough not to sabotage it.
She had expected Hana-chan to be waiting for them -- heralding, no doubt, an awkward and unpleasant conversation -- but to her cautious optimism the room is empty except for a human girl in a black dress and white apron; whispering something to her beloved, the other girl curtsies before turning and walking away. Topher grabs her hand, eliciting a flurry of queasy butterflies in her stomach, and pulls her along in tow.
They follow the human girl -- a maid? -- through a few stone corridors before arriving at a wooden door; she can sense its solidity, unlike the flimsy walls which make up most of the castle. Topher exchanges some more words with the other woman, which she ignores -- her heart is pounding in her chest and she has the utmost confidence that he will handle whatever the situation is anyway, but she suspects she already understands what is transpiring and will operate under that assumption until it becomes untenable. After a moment, the human girl hands her a key, confirming her suspicions, then makes another curtsy and departs; she is momentarily jealous of the other woman's easy mastery of such graces, but quickly forgets it upon realizing what the key signifies. Her pulse increases further.
Stepping past Topher -- passing perhaps slightly more closely than is necessary, and feeling no guilt about it -- she inserts the key into the lock and opens the door. Within is, as she had hoped but barely dared dream, a suite -- opposing couches surrounding a low table (upon which a covered tray and several envelopes lie), a picturesque and roaring fireplace faced by two overstuffed chairs, and a door through which she can glimpse a four-poster bed. Intuitively, she knows that the further room also contains a bathroom with a large tub (because of course it will), but this is less important than the tingling sense at the edge of her perceptions which tells her that this room is warded -- capable of withstanding, either from without or within, any destructive force. Her breath becomes shorter in further anticipation.
Topher, charmingly ignorant of this, opens the first envelope and begins to read aloud:
Topher --
Though doubtless your efforts, and the efforts of Miss Jones, are deserving of much greater rewards, this is all we can offer in the present circumstances. I will leave the explanations to others -- for myself, I shall simply say congratulations.
-- Quint
At the bottom of the letter, in bright aquamarine writing, the number 48 can be seen; alongside it are some symbols Zanasha does not know, including a few instances of the circular rune she knows stands for the quantity of 'nothing' but has never quite understood in many of its usages. If they survive, she is hoping she can get Topher to teach her about mathematics, because it sounds interesting and it will give them something to talk about for the rest of their lives. She approaches and puts her chin on his shoulder to read the next letter along with him. Unlike the previous letter, which was roughly and quickly dashed off, this letter is penned with elegant and careful penmanship, and reads:
Mister Bailey and Miss Jones,
I hope it is not presumptuous of me, but I have elected to use this opportunity to advance my own agenda; as part of that effort, I have again borrowed Miss Shirakane. My hope is that I may provide her some companionship and counsel during this period while availing myself of her knowledge and capabilities, as well as performing a few dull but necessary tasks which shall hopefully smooth our collective paths forward in the near future. The package which accompanies this letter is a poor gift, but nevertheless I hope it will bring you as much happiness to receive as it brought me to create.
Fondly, Rudo Muchenje
Blinking in confusion, Topher lifts the lid from the tray; inside are two tall, elegant glasses of some bubbly libation and a dainty plate containing a squarish white block with frilly edges, which at first she mistakes for a stack of handkerchiefs before realizing it is a confection of some sort. Lacy pink squiggles are perched atop it, picking out a pattern of interlocking heart shapes along with the word "CONGRATULATIONS" written in a flowing script; Zanasha is bemused, even if she doesn't understand. "A tradition from your world?" she hazards, brushing her lips against Topher's cheek as she does so and exulting in his resultant blush.
"Yeah," he mumbles. "Special cake you eat when you get... married." His hands tremble as he picks up the last letter, which is much smaller than the other two; after a moment, he hands it to her. "I think this one's for you."
She accepts it from him with a nod, knowing the truth of his words; the envelope is squarish and yellow, but bears a seal with which she is familiar. She breaks it and extracts the missive within, knowing what it will say even before she looks upon it.
Zee:
I know that I don't always say the right things. And I know that sometimes, I don't consider your feelings as often as I should.
There are a lot of things I want to say, but you know what they are, and even I know that just because I want to say them doesn't mean they should be said. Maybe someday, this will all seem silly, and we can laugh about it over some rice wine. Just know that no matter what happens, I'm with you.
白兼花
She sighs happily and holds the letter close to her heart; Topher, to her immense respect, does not pry or question, despite the fact that as her husband he is certainly entitled to know whatever he wishes. Zanasha contemplates this, then decides that she has made him suffer enough; tucking the letter into her hip pouch, she gently takes his hands and leads him to sit facing her on one of the couches. "Husband," she begins, thrilling at the opportunity to use the word for the first time, "there are some things that you should know."
His mouth twitches behind his funny little beard; behind his glass lenses, she can see his wary eyes wrestle with, accept, and surrender to this news. "Go on."
"Firstly," she begins with an indrawn breath, because this is the hardest and most terrifying part of the process for her and one that she would really quite rather have addressed before matrimony, "as a child of two races, it is... unlikely... that I may bring forth children." Her voice does not tremble, but this is entirely a testament to her iron willpower, because she is deathly afraid that this news will displease her betrothed. "Less than one chance in ten."
His eyebrows go up, then his lips purse in thought; after a moment, he nods. Her heart skips a beat as a smile, warm and comforting, spreads across his face; and he squeezes her hands gently. "I'm okay with that. What else?"
Relief floods through Zanasha; she can scarcely gather her thoughts to continue. "Through a series of technicalities," she soldiers on, knees growing weak, "you are now the chieftain of the village of Breakskull. This may have political consequences, if any of my more distant relatives survive."
She expects confusion, but is pleasantly surprised when mirth blooms across his countenance; he laughs, that sandpapery laugh which she knows is at least a little self-mocking, and shakes his head. "Orc in-laws. That'll be an amazing Thanksgiving Dinner." He squeezes her hands again, his smile even broader. "No problem, gorgeous." Confidently, he reaches over and plucks the two glasses from the tray, handing her one while retaining the other for himself; the effervescence from within tickles her nose slightly. "Anything else?" he prompts, taking a sip.
"Only one additional topic." Her body is very warm now, so she hurries on to the last and most important fact, skipping over the burning cultural questions of what a Gratitude Meal is. "The Orcish rite of union -- Madz'kgha -- which we have performed is not yet entirely complete." Her cheeks feel like they are on fire; other parts of her are similarly enflamed. She trembles, very slightly, because Zanasha Jones, despite being brave enough to face near-certain death on practically a daily basis, has absolutely no practice whatsoever in saying what she is about to say next.
Her heart hammering in her chest like a dwarven forge, she leans close to him and whispers the details of ritual's completion in his ear; and Topher Bailey, who was in no way whatsoever prepared for such a thing, chokes on his champagne.
To say the ritual is successful is an understatement.