#dita0aura

  Achievements

              Alibaba Saluja was proud of a lot of things he’d learned over the past few months, from the gladiator arenas of Laem to the skies above the plain where the armies of many countries had come together to face an incarnation of pure despair.  But there was one accomplishment he considered a substantially bigger deal than the others.

            And yet the first time he used his full Djinn Equip in front of her, in the sparring pavilion of the Sindrian palace and not in the heat of battle, she looked…disappointed. 

            Or at least, he thought it was disappointment; the cast of her eyes and tilt of her chin seemed to suggest it, though it was hard to tell with Morgiana. 

Regardless, he wasn’t quite expecting how much it made his heart plunge to see it.  He hadn’t wanted to admit to himself how much he wanted to see her light up in admiration.  How much he wanted to hear his name in her voice, whispered in awe. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, feeling the heat of the flames whirling around him gutter like candles in a breeze. 

“You can fly now,” was her flat response, delivered more to the ground than to him. 

“I…I guess?”  To be honest, the temporary defiance of gravity Djinn Equip gave him did not really seem that impressive, when you compared it to the hot, rippling armor that wrapped itself around his limbs and the blazing black razor of Amon’s blade and the heady feeling of becoming a living inferno. 

He still didn’t understand what bearing it would have on her feelings, anyway.  And then she rubbed one of her cuffs absently with the opposite hand, and the pieces slowly began to click together. 

“Oh…oh!”  Her voice came faintly back to him out of the past.  “I want to be the wings for you and Aladdin!”   The eagerness on her face when she realized she had a way to aid them in battle that was all her own.  The glowing joy and pride on her face the first time she had descended upon the armies of Laem and Magnostadt like a firebird herself.  

“Um…but I can only do this for a short time still!” he said quickly.  “Then I run out of magoi; I’m still working on that part.  So…so, I’m sure there’ll still be times when I need your help.” 

She looked up at him sidelong, as though slightly suspicious.  He wasn’t sure what had possessed him to dig himself further in when her doubts would probably have faded on their own.  But he could still visualize her haloed in fire and chains as he sprawled across her arms, hundreds of feet above the ground.  He could still remember shock and relief and awe warring in his chest at the sight of her. 

He tried not to let his smile falter, especially when he saw the flicker of real hope start in her eyes. 

“I’ll never stop needing your help, Morgiana.” 

He wasn’t sure why the extra words left his mouth.  All he knew was that they didn’t feel untrue. 

And they made her lift her head abruptly, meeting his eyes full on this time.  The hope had flared up from a flicker to a shine, and one of those rare smiles had stolen across the edges of her mouth.  Amon’s sword in his hand heated suddenly, the seal searing to life. 

Briefly, he forgot how to breathe. 

That was the look he’d wanted to see from her.

And he had the strangest feeling that it had nothing to do with the Djinn Equip at all. 

   For a Swordsman

  “Yamu, he says he needs you!”­­

She looked up from where she was pressing her hand against an angry reddened patch on her shoulder that still ached with the remnants of black rukh, channeling magoi into it, feeling the sting retreat.  Pisti’s eyes were wide, and she was breathless, trembling with nervous energy, her arm shaking as she held Yamuraiha’s door open.   

            The phrasing, for some reason, gave Yamu pause, maybe because part of her attention was still stuck on spells and enemies and defending Sindria from Al-Thaman at any cost.  Or maybe it was because the first image that flashed across her mind’s eye was her glimpse of Masrur after the fight, carrying a bundle of limp white cloth and bronze skin draped across his muscled arms. 

            But for whatever reason, for an instant in her mind, the ‘he’ that said he needed her was Sharrkan, and Yamuraiha just stared at Pisti with her lips slightly parted, her hand resting heedlessly on her injury, healing forgotten. 

            “Sinbad needs your help, he said you’d know how to help if it gets infected.”  Pisti’s voice wobbled as she clarified.  She had always been the worrier in the aftermath, always so concerned for them all, hurrying from room to room or bedside to bedside as if reassuring herself that they were all still whole. 

            Yamuraiha snapped back to reality, mentally sliding on her mantle of healer as easily as donning a cloak.  She took a deep breath, feeling inside herself for the wells of energy that seethed at her call. There wasn’t as much there as usual; she had just finished fighting, after all.  But hopefully it would be enough. 

*

            She had expected there to be an audience, but when she reached the infirmary room with Pisti there was only Sinbad, standing over the bed.  He had a bandage wrapped up one arm already, and his face was set.

            “Where’s everyone else?” asked Pisti, wide-eyed.  She crept closer to the bedside, the worry plainer on her face than on the carefully schooled lines of Sinbad’s.

            “I sent them to reassure the people and tend their own minor wounds.  Sitting in here wouldn’t do any good for them…or Sharrkan.”  Yamuraiha strode to the bedside to stand beside her king.  So it had been him she’d seen Masrur carrying.

He was naked to the waist, the loincloth and light armor still wrapped around his lower half.  Yamuraiha wasn’t sure why that gave her pause; his everyday clothing left him practically half-naked anyway, but this was somehow different. 

At least she didn’t have to ask what exactly was wrong with him.  A long, shallow slash ran diagonally across his torso, dark against his bronze skin, from beneath one shoulder to the base of his ribcage on the other side.  It wasn’t bleeding, nor was it particularly deep, but Yamuraiha didn’t even have to use magic to know that the cut had been made by a Dark Magic Tool, something infused with the black rukh.  It wasn’t actively leaking darkness, but she could sense it warring with Sharrkan’s own magoi and preventing the wound from closing. 

“He got careless,” she said softly, trying to cover the fact that her chest had clenched at the sight of the injury.  Sinbad did not argue, even though both of them knew very well that Sharrkan was careless with many things, but rarely when it came to fighting. 

“Is it going to spread?” he asked instead.  “Infect him somehow?  If it’s not healing…”

“It could get dangerous.  It doesn’t seem like it is now, but it’s wearing him down, and he can’t heal properly like this.”  

“Then what can we do?”  Sinbad was looking at her with the serious deference he always gave her whenever a situation turned to healing.  It had thrown her the first few times, but she was used to it now.  She frowned down at the injury, trying to focus on it alone and not Sharrkan’s drawn face and the sweat that was starting to bead on his skin, probably from growing fever in response to the dark magoi. 

“If he has something consistently cool and infused with healing magoi near the wound for the night, he should be safe.”  She thought for a moment, trying to come to terms with the fact that she was hesitating more over this than if the injured person had been someone, anyone else. 

“I’ll stay with him.  Overnight.  There’s a simple spell that will lower my skin temperature; that and my magoi will get him through the worst of it.”  Yamuraiha glanced at Sinbad to see how he would interpret that, but to his credit he only raised one eyebrow slightly.  Pisti’s eyes widened a little more obviously, but concern still dominated her expression.

            “Well I’m no healer, so I’ll support whatever solution you have.”  Sinbad looked over Sharrkan again, fingering the bandaged area on his arm distractedly, before glancing back at her again.  “You’ll be all right here, all night?  Do you want Pisti to help keep an eye on him with you…?”

            “That won’t be necessary,” Yamuraiha said, hoping she hadn’t blurted it out too quickly.  The idea of doing this with an audience, though, was…not ideal.  Pisti reached over and patted her elbow, presumably showing that she understood, and Yamu flashed the younger general a small smile of gratitude.

            “If you’re sure then.”  Sinbad gave her a small but genuinely warm smile of his own.  “Let me know if anything changes.”  He nodded to Pisti.  “Let’s let her get on with it.” 

            Pisti squeezed Yamuraiha’s arm one more time and murmured, “Take care of him,” before following Sinbad out, leaving Yamu alone with her patient.

            The first thing she did was lean her staff against the little side table; she didn’t really need it for magic this simple, and it wouldn’t exactly be comfortable.  Then she made herself turn her full attention of Sharrkan. 

            Some small part of her that had grown much too used to his sense of humor and the way he needled at her half-expected him to open his eyes and grin at her, deeply pleased with himself for having gotten her so worked up.  But of course he didn’t; Sharrkan might have been a bastard, but he had never been cruel.

            Yamuraiha reached down inside herself for the flow of bright magoi, letting the words of the spell for cold and water flow across her mind.  She felt it flutter at the pressure of her will, shaping itself over her body like a second skin; not cold, but cool, enough to form a counterpoint to the heat of the fever.

            She took off her earpieces next, and then, before she let her mind make too much of it, shed her outer robe and left it on the back of a chair, leaving her in just undergarments.  She tried to think of her skin as a healing agent, nothing more than an extension of the way she would use her hands to channel magoi into an injury. 

            Yamuraiha took a deep breath.  This was business.  This was healing.  This was one general of Sindria caring for another.  She checked that the cooling was in effect one last time, and then she slid herself in among the thin, soft sheets like she was going into battle all over again. 

            This close she could feel the heat radiating off his bare skin in waves; it was far from a good sign, medically speaking, but it made her shiver involuntarily. She thought of her own blithe, assured words to Sinbad moments earlier; If he has something consistently cool and infused with healing magoi near the wound for the night, he should be safe.

            And it was absolutely true, she was sure of it.  She had complete confidence in her healing ability and methods.  It even made sense that she herself be the vessel for the magoi, since her body could keep up a fairly steady supply of it, as opposed to some sort of charm or object that would have to be monitored.  And this way she could get some rest for herself instead of staying awake in a chair by his bedside all night.  But saying that in theory and actually doing it…

            She pressed herself against him before she started thinking too much, skin on skin, and felt foolish and unrepentant at the same time.  He was hot with fever and damp with sweat, and it was nothing like she’d imagined in moments of private weakness.  He didn’t even twitch at the contact, and Yamuraiha didn’t know if she felt more relieved or concerned at that. 

“This is all you get,” she whispered aloud to his sleeping face, which looked younger and more vulnerable than she’d ever seen him.  She placed a tentative hand on the curve of his shoulder, feeling the contrast between her cooled skin and his.  Telling herself firmly that she was checking his temperature, she stroked gently up his neck, his pulse thrumming too fast under her fingertips, until she felt the soft, silvery hair on his nape. 

            She wondered suddenly what it would be like if his eyes were open right now, if he was warm and sweat-damp and breathing unevenly for reasons other than fever. 

            Annoyed, she pressed her forehead to his collarbone and tried to remind herself that she was the one cloaked in water magic; her skin was not supposed to be burning.

            Yet despite her worries and her unwanted thoughts, despite his raspy breathing and the heat radiating off him, despite the lingering discomfort of her own injuries, she felt sure she could fall asleep, here. 

            This is all you get, too, was what she silently told herself before she closed her eyes.  

*

            “Damn it, who put ice in my bed?  Pisti, you little…” The mumbled words roused her slowly, enough to register the dim light that was starting to filter into the infirmary.  Sharrkan’s voice was slurred enough that she knew he wasn’t awake all the way, but he was beginning to return to consciousness, if he was able to register the chill of her magic.  Yamuraiha tensed, coming all the way awake, both relieved and nervous at the knowledge that he was going to wake up very soon. 

            She let out a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding when his eyes fluttered open, bright green sparking beneath his eyelids.  For a moment they stayed heavy and unfocused, sliding restlessly from side to side.  Then she lifted her head a bit to look at him better, and his gaze fastened on the movement.

            “Ya…mu…?  Why are you…shit, did I get hurt?” He tried to push himself onto his side, then flinched a little, lines of pain appearing between his eyes.  “Guess so,” he croaked.  “So what—”  He stilled abruptly, not moving his body but his eyes twitching slowly wider, panning over her. 

            She swallowed and willed her body temperature to lower, willed blood not to rise to her cheeks and throat. 

            “You…you’re…in my…bed?”  He blinked as though she were going to evaporate like a dream, which was probably what he thought she was at this point.  “And you’re…”

            “Wearing a few less clothes than usual, I suppose, yes.”  At this point Yamuraiha thought it would be better to take control of the conversation; she felt way too unbalanced when he was just staring and stuttering like that, especially with his face still drowsy. 

            He regarded her blankly for a moment longer, while she tried to freeze her face into a look of cool nonchalance.  Then the exact expression she’d been dreading since his eyes had opened stole over his face.  He may still have been too sore to move much, but his mouth remembered that cocky twist of a grin far, far too well. 

            “So,” Sharrkan said, his voice still hoarse with sleep but somehow, somehow managing to be smug nonetheless.  “This is what it took to get you into my bed?  You have high standards, Yamu.”

            “Don’t be ridiculous.”  Yamuraiha was very proud that her voice did not catch, not even a little, and that her movements were fluid when she tossed the sheets aside and reached for her discarded robe hanging on the chair.  “You can thank me for the continuing use of your limbs and torso, and possibly your life, at any time.” 

            She was expecting another jab, was practically preparing for it as she slipped her arms into the sleeves.  But instead he said, in a low voice that was startling in its seriousness, “Thank you.”

            She glanced back over her shoulder at him, surprised.  He had, very gingerly, levered himself onto his side towards her.  And he was still very shirtless, so she focused firmly on the fact that the ugly red line across his chest was now much smaller and fainter, and congratulated herself on that instead.

            “The fight’s coming back to me now.  It got bad this time, huh?”  He touched the scar lightly, movements still sluggish.  “But I remember watching you fighting.  You were pretty amazing…” 

            Her eyes snapped up to his face in shock and met his gaze straight on, his green eyes with that damned gleam in them, and she felt herself lose to the encroaching flush on her face at the exact moment he grinned, all white teeth and lidded eyes and smug, smug grin and finished, “…for a magician, that is.” 

            If she hadn’t just spent an entire night healing him, she would gladly have smacked him with the staff she’d left leaning against the side table right then.  Instead, she fastened her ear-pieces back on fastidiously, took a deep breath, and then strode back over to the bed.  Two, she thought fiercely.  Two can play this game.

            Yamuraiha reached straight across the bed in one movement, leaning almost all the way into him, and dragged two fingers very lightly down the center of the mark where it would be most sensitive, from the base of his collarbone to the top of his flat stomach. 

            The sputtering, gasping yelp he made was more satisfying than she really wanted to admit to.

            “Oh, you didn’t fight so badly yourself,” she said sweetly, drawing back and retrieving her staff.  “For a swordsman.”