#bertram tag

He punches holes in the dirt to plant seeds. His arms bare the tale of revolution. On their surface scars crisscross like river channels. Some tell stories; many are lost to time. There are some he can name: a knuckle where a chisel slipped; a slash from Ran’jit’s scythe on his forearm; a chip on his ivory scales from a woodsaw; a lucky shot from a Garlean soldier whose name he’ll never know but whose life he ended with the same hand. He pats down the soil around the seeds like a grave and grabs a copper watering can to nourish them.

The sun is getting low and the air cool and dewy as he finishes his work planting and weeding. After putting the rest of his tools away he pulls from his belt a kama, the gentle curve of its blade glinting in the evening light, and makes his way to a stand of blooming brightlilies. In genuflection he kneels to them and wraps his fingers around the flower stalks like arteries and pulls them taut, holds the blade against their stems. The petals are vibrant bursts of sunset orange and yellow, and when Seishin cuts their shoots they come soft and willingly.

Inside, the lights are warm and a pleasant aroma hangs in the air. As Seishin removes his sandals in the entryway, a sweet voice greets him from around the corner. “Perfect timing, Seishin! Bertram should be done with dinner soon.” Styrnrael appears, in a sleeveless top and jacket tied around her waist, wiping the sweat from her brow with one hand and holding a broom with the other. “Oh!” she exclaims when she sees the flowers in his hands. A familiar tenderness spreads in Seishin’s chest when she smiles. She rests the broom against the wall and goes to him on the steps, bounding across the wooden floor with the same perfect balance she has on the battlefield. She puts her smaller hands on his as she leans in to smell the lilies. There is a resonance in the way the callouses on her sword hand rub against his scars.

She pulls away from the flowers and Seishin laughs and wipes some pollen that got on her nose, orange upon indigo. He rests his fingers against her horn and the dark scales on the side of her face and pulls her into a kiss. They stay for a moment, foreheads pressed together, smiling against each other’s lips. She holds her hand on his chest, just above the sweeping scar left by Zenos’ blade. Most of Styrnrael's own scars are on the inside, on her heart and her mind. Memories she had lost, and more she doubtless wishes she could. “I think I know the perfect thing to put these flowers in,” she says, and he follows her into the sunroom where she grabs a crystal blue vase from the bottom shelf of his planting bench. Before handing it to him she runs a cloth through the inside of the deep drum to clean out any dust. Her wrist flicks with the expert strokes of a fencer. Many stories have met sudden conclusions by that same movement.

“I’m going to go get changed before dinner,” she says, leaning up to kiss him again before they part. “Don’t forget to wash up!”

“I’ll be there soon,” he smiles, and after she leaves Seishin fills the vase with water and trims the stems at an angle. He peels the ends apart slightly with his fingertips: another little violence in the crafting of something beautiful. He takes his cobalt hair down and washes his hands, and grabs a clean overshirt from a hook next to Styrn’s sunhat.

He heads downstairs with vase in hand and his footsteps are gradually drowned out by the loud sizzle of meat and vegetables in a wok. A familiar sweet and savory smell fills Seishin’s nostrils. He rounds the corner at the bottom and Bertram is in the kitchen with his back turned. Under his apron his white sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing his own rosy map of scars of blade and fire. They tell the story of a survivor, against Word, against time, against despair; of pain and rebirth in the flame. He deftly wields a pair of long bamboo chopsticks, at home with them perhaps even more than he is with sword and scythe. One of his tall ears twitches toward the stairs and Bertram turns to Seishin and smiles; Seishin loves the way he ties his hair back when he cooks, revealing more of his face under his shock of red.

The dining room table is of live edge wood that Seishin had chopped and planed and sanded himself. Again and again life replacing death replacing life by his hand. He gently places the vase of flowers on it and joins Bertram in the kitchen, coming up behind the Viera and wrapping his arms tightly around him. “Hot stove, hot stove!” Bertram exclaims anxiously. “Hold on a moment…” He puts the chopsticks to the side and with mitts moves the wok off the woodfire stove onto a trivet. He spins around in Seishin’s arms, planting one hand on the edge of the counter behind him and carding his flamescarred fingers through Seishin’s hair with the other. “Okay, there we go. Honestly, Seishin—” and he pulls him down into a kiss. When Seishin laughs and apologizes Bertram just leans further into his lips, not letting him go. They hold each other for a moment longer before Bertram leans back and looks into his eyes. “If you want to help so bad, you could at least take these bowls to the table.”