conqueror

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sakura wakes softly. not to the sun, not at first. not to the birds beginning their small arguments outside the window or the village stirring beyond the walls. she wakes to warmth, to the quiet weight of an arm around her waist. to breath against the back of her neck, soft and even, so unlike the boy she remembers sleeping beneath trees with one hand always near a weapon. for a moment, she does not move. there were years when she imagined this so often that the dream became embarrassing. sasuke beside her, sasuke home. sasuke close enough to reach without calling his name into an empty room. but the girl who dreamed it had not understood how ordinary happiness could be. she had imagined declarations, reunions, the world finally becoming kind enough to return everything it had taken. she had not imagined the faint crease between his brows even in sleep, or the way his fingers curl into the fabric at her stomach as if some part of him is still afraid she might disappear before morning. he came back. he came back. ❝ you know, ❞ she whispers, savoring the morning glow that illuminates his skin, ❝ for someone who acts like he doesn’t need anyone, you’re very clingy in the morning. ❞ @case-study

He had been awake for several minutes, but sasuke simply had not seen any reason to announce it. Morning was an intrusion he tolerated poorly on the best of days. It crept through the curtains without permission, warmed the room too quickly, and brought with it the distant sounds of a village apparently incapable of beginning its day quietly, Doors opened, merchants called to one another and somewhere nearby, a dog barked with unnecessary enthusiasm. Sakura’s voice was worse. Like sunshine slipped into a melody as he turned towards her. “I’m not clingy.” The denial came immediately, roughened by sleep and delivered with all the solemn certainty of a man stating an established fact. His arm remained around her waist. He kept his eyes closed for another moment, as though refusing to look at her might end the conversation before it developed into something irritating. He knew better. Sakura had never been discouraged by silence. If anything, she treated it as an invitation to continue until he was forced to respond. “You move too much,” he added. “And you talk too much. But I never complain." His arm tightened for a moment, warm. "Tell me we don't have to see Naruto this early. I'd threaten violence sooner then leave this bed."

it's always been easy to tell when zuko's trying to be honest. it is in the way he arranges himself first, shoulders squared, hands behind his back, mouth careful around words that have already betrayed him. fire lord zuko can stand before councils, generals, old men still clinging to the ashes of a ruined world, and somehow look less uncertain than he does beneath the moonlight with her. she should not find it endearing. she looks away before her smile can become too obvious, eyes drifting toward the pond where the moon breaks itself into silver pieces across the water. the palace gardens are beautiful in a way that still feels strange to her, too polished, too quiet. every flower placed with intention, every lantern lit by hands she never sees. there are nights when the fire nation palace feels less like a home and more like a story told in whispers. ❝ most people don’t spend their banquets being lectured about trade routes either, ❞ she says, voice soft with amusement. ❝ so maybe we both make terrible royal guests. ❞ her gaze returns to him then, just for a moment. [ in her mind she repeats : be careful. ] but the water at her feet does not listen. it trembles with the smallest motion of her hand, answering what she will not say aloud. ❝ escaping to find me? ❞ katara tilts her head, the smile finally winning. ❝ that almost sounded like a compliment. don’t worry — i won’t let it go to my head. ❞ her eyes flick over him, bright and teasing. ❝ i already knew i was more interesting than trade routes. ❞ @case-study

“It was a compliment,” He finally admits. Zuko had faced assassins with steadier nerves than this. At least assassins were predictable. They wanted him dead, and they usually had the decency to announce it with steel. Katara only had to tilt her head and smile at him like that, and suddenly every sensible thought in his mind scattered. His reflection wavered beside hers on the surface of the pond. Fire and water, distorted by the smallest breeze. Once, he might have thought the sight looked wrong. Now, it seemed almost inevitable. Zuko shifted his weight and looked back at her. “Though I’m beginning to regret saying it.” There was no real regret in his voice. The faint curve of his mouth betrayed him long before his expression could recover. “You’re already impossible when you think you’re right.” He stepped nearer, moving to stand beside her rather than behind her. The garden remained quiet around them, though the palace still glowed beyond the walls. Somewhere inside, servants would be searching for him. Ministers would be waiting. The room he had abandoned would continue spinning without him for a few minutes longer. “And evidently even the pond agrees with you.”

elia has learned that marriage is not what the court thinks it is. not entirely, not the jeweled cloak placed over her shoulders, not the septon’s words, not the careful smile she wore while half the realm watched to see if dorne would bend prettily beneath dragon hands. marriage is quieter than that. stranger. it is discovering which silences belong to discomfort & which belong to peace. it is knowing the sound of his step before he speaks. it is finding, despite herself, that she has begun to turn pages more slowly when she expects him. the book rests open in her lap, though she has not read the same line properly in several moments. the sunlight is warm against her cheek, warmer than king’s landing deserves to be. for a breath, she lets herself pretend the library is not inside a castle full of watchers . that she is not a princess weighed by every servant’s glance, every whisper dressed as courtesy, every question about sons yet unborn. then rhaegar speaks, and the spell does not break so much as shift. ❝ you should always be concerned when i am reading, your grace. ❞ the title is tilted just enough for him to see, though her finger remains poised over the passage as if she might defend it from him. ❝ books are very dangerous things. they often encourage women to think. ❞ a smile touches the corner of her mouth, brief as dornish shade. she remembers his misquoted philosopher with more fondness than triumph, though she would sooner perish than confess it too plainly. rhaegar targaryen has enough songs written about him. he does not need her giving him another victory. ❝ and you were misquoting him, ❞ she adds, gentle as a blade slid back into silk. ❝ repeatedly. it would have been cruel to let you continue. ❞ elia watches him settle into the chair opposite hers, watches the prince abandon duty with a grace most men reserve for entering battle. there are shadows beneath the beauty of him. there always are. prophecy, grief, some old sorrow that seems to have known him since childhood . but here, with golden light in his hair & a council somewhere being neglected, he looks almost young. [ in her mind she repeats : do not be foolish. ] but fondness is a foolish thing, it grows where it is not invited. ❝ perhaps that is not my talent at all, ❞ she says, closing the book around one slender finger to keep her place. ❝ perhaps your duties are simply not as captivating as you pretend. ❞ @case-study

Elia has a way of making amusement feel less like indulgence and more like surrender. He has known women praised for beauty, for charm, for the softness of their hands or the sweetness of their voices, but Elia possesses a more dangerous grace. “Cruel,” he repeats, as though considering the accusation. “No. I think you enjoyed it.” His eyes lower to the book she has closed around her finger, then return to her face. The sunlight has made a conspiracy of itself, he thinks. It favors her openly, gathering along the curve of her cheek, touching the gold at her throat, warming the dark fall of her hair. If he were a more foolish man, he might have believed the singers invented women like this. If he were a wiser one, he might have left the library before his absence was noted elsewhere. “Most duties are not captivating at all,” he says. “They are merely persistent. Like old men with grievances, or ravens in poor weather.” His smile deepens, gentler now, edged with something warmer than wit. “You, however, are a far more elegant interruption.” He lets his gaze drift, unhurried, from her eyes to the book in her lap. “So — what danger have I interrupted today? Philosophy? History? Some Dornish treatise that will arm you with another reason to humble me before supper?” He tilts his head, violet eyes bright with quiet mischief. “I should warn you, my princess. If your aim is to make me afraid of clever women, you have failed rather badly.”