#garttina

               and I will forgive you

for taking my heart

The sun had only half risen when Attina crept into the prince's chambers. A quarter of an hour later, the light would probably rouse him anyway. He did not like to waste the daylight and often rose with it, to train or otherwise. But this morning, she had him without question, still abed and unsuspecting. He stirred when she brushed kisses on his face, grunting sleepily as he began to rouse.

Warmth: I'll write our characters getting warm.

The nights grew ever colder as they continued through the expanse of Narnia, and although he did everything he could to avoid showing it, Garsiv grew increasingly miserable. As a man of the desert, he was used to high heat and dry climate, conditions that would break many other people but he thrived on them.

Here, the temperatures not only dropped at night, as they did in the desert, but they grew wet and, occasionally, rained. The sun dropped two hours before and it took them some time to build a shelter after a short downpour that left them both soaked to the skin.

Attina did not seem bothered by this turn of events, but he could have predicted that, considering her species. He, on the other hand, sat huddled into himself, wearing a scowl and staring at the makeshift fire pit as he attempted to start a flame. When he finally managed a spark that caught, he leaned back against a log and sighed heavily, refusing to accept the fact that he knew he needed another blanket.

However, he felt her gaze on him, which only made him grumpier, and after a time, he could not take it anymore.

"What?" he snapped finally, his eyes flickering up to look at her sharply. And there was her bell-like laugh again.

"You look so upset," she answered, clearly amused. He pursed his lips in response and looked back at the fire. "As usual. What is wrong this time?"

"Nothing," he answered, wrinkling his nose and crossing his arms over his chest. By the tsk she made, she did not even begin to believe him.

"You are always grumpy," she pointed out, "but it's obvious when you are grumpy for a reason."

His gaze lifted to meet hers and stared for several moments, before snorting sardonically and looking back at the fire. She did not say anything more but he felt her eyes on him as he tried to convince himself that he was not nearly as cold as he felt. The minutes passed and the rain pattered on the roof of their tent. No longer used to the quiet, Garsiv was not sure if he even liked it.

After a time, he heard her shift on the other side of the fire and he became aware that she moved toward him. He nearly flinched when she stopped beside him and his eyes slid to their corners to regard her. Finally, she rested her head against his shoulder, which (he hated to admit) surprised him.

"Better?" she asked after a solid minute passed.

Achilles: My character reveals their weaknesses to yours. { Or one in this case because no way would he reveal all of them at once, proud bby. }

"No. No further than this."

Garsiv stood firm with clearly no intention to budge a single step. The water around him lapped at his abdomen, almost as if pushing him back to the shore. If only.

Naturally, Attina floated further away, certainly much deeper than he intended to venture. His arms crossed over his chest, scowling in response to her bell-like laughter. He, of course, did not find it funny. Before, when they "swam" together, they never made it past the depth he stood in now, which gave him both comfort and control.

"Oh, don't be such a baby," she answered, her tone light and teasing and amused as it often was when she spoke to him. His frown remained and he shook his head firmly, planting his heels in the sand beneath his feet. "Fine, then, why not, Grumpy Gills?"

"This is as far as I feel like going," he replied stubbornly, tilting his chin upward. "I do not do things I don't want to do." Had he known what a petulant child he sounded like, it would have horrified him, but for the good of everybody involved, he didn't. The prospect of venturing further into the sea distracted him. After all, fear was not an emotion he often had to experience.

Attina's brow furrowed for several moments before she apparently realized something and her face slackened.

"Oh, Puppy," (his shoulders tightened at the nickname and he hissed beneath his breath in irritation) "you're scared, aren't you?"

"Absolutely not!" he snarled in response. It frustrated him even more that her voice cooed at him, encouraging and sweet instead of mocking as he wished it was. He could fight against mockery much more easily. "The head of the Persian army is not frightened of a bit of water."

Never mind that the sea consisted of much more than just a few drops. And that he could not think of a single other place in which he could not effectively defend himself. The ocean was unknown to him, and if he floated, armorless, swordless, in the midst of it, there was no telling what could happen to him. It represented helplessness to him.

"Garsiv..."

There was that concern in her voice that he so despised, again. He looked away from her, anywhere else. She knew, didn't she? He could tell by the way she looked at him; he felt her eyes, although he could not see her, and the invisible something that hung between them told him that he could not hide, however desperately he wanted to."

"Fine," he snapped, lifting his eyes to meet hers. "I do not want to swim because I am afraid. That is what you wanted to hear, is it not?" With that, he turned on his heel and waded toward the shore as quickly as he could.

Her protests fell on deaf ears as he made it to land and he hauled the last of himself onto the sand in a controlled fall, settling himself roughly on his back. The sun beat down on his chest and he drew in a deep breath.

{ Requested via text by Attina-mun! }

Scars: I’ll write your character touching my character’s scars or vice versa

"And this one?"

"Grazed by an arrow. A bit to the right and I may not have been here to tell you this."

Garsiv leaned back on his elbows, closing his eyes in enjoyment at the warmth of the beach sand beneath him. His armor and shirt lay further up, discarded beyond the reach of the waves that lapped upon the shore. The water did, however, reach his legs, dampening the bottoms of his rolled-up pants, but he could not bring himself to care. Not when the sea's touch soothed him so. And especially not when a beautiful woman took it upon herself to ask about his scars.

No matter that concern laced her tone with each question. He could pretend it was admiration and desire instead. Quite easily, in fact.

Attina lay beside him, her lower half also engulfed in the surf, although she decided to wear her fins today. It no longer bothered him so very much to see them or even to touch them, when they happened to brush against his leg. He surprised himself with the things he grew accustomed to.

"And what happened here?" The gentle touch of her fingers upon his upper arm, along with her slightly accusatory tone, woke him from his trance and made him hiss in alarm.

"What happened there is that it is not yet healed, so hands off, woman."

To his irritation, though not to his surprise, Attina chuckled in amusement as she withdrew her hand. She did not seem even remotely shaken by his response.

"What did you do, Puppy?"

Garsiv scowled at her laughing face and grunted, pursing his lips in annoyance. "I have told you not to call me by that imbecilic name," he snapped before taking a pause and easing his back down completely upon the sand. Another moment passed before he added, "I had a disagreement with a man in a pub. He looks much worse."

"Garsiv, you brute." When she pushed at his wounded shoulder to solidify her opinion of the matter, it coaxed a small yelp from him that he then attempted to cover up, which seemed to satisfy her.

Stars: Our characters under the stars together

The stars looked much different here than in Persia. It only demonstrated just how far away he was from home. A flicker of regret stirred in his gut for the first time since his departure and he was left to wonder why. Why should he regret the noble intention of bringing his father's murderer to justice?

Was this what people meant when they spoke of homesickness?

"Garsiv?"

He turned on his heel to face Attina when she spoke his name. He wished he could harden his expression, but instead, it just barely softened, perhaps from surprise; he did not expect to see her here, although when he thought about it, he did not know why.

"You should be sleeping," he responded. The words did not come out quite as gruffly as he would have preferred. Quickly, he glanced away from her, back to the sky. Was he growing soft? Certainly not. It bothered him that she came to find him, perhaps after realizing he left their room in the small inn on the outskirts of town.

"Hush," she scolded him, but gently. Garsiv wished she would not speak to him like that. It made him like her far more than he wished to. Despite everything, despite the fact that he already had trouble with the idea of leaving her behind for good, he refused to submit to the weakness of how much he desired her. "What's the trouble?"

"No trouble," he insisted quietly. "Just a thought."

"Thoughts are trouble with you. What is it?"

Sometimes he hated how nosy she tended to be, but then again, he hated being questioned or asked to share his thoughts in any capacity. Garsiv cleared his throat, wincing inwardly when he heard her venture closer to him. The last thing he wanted to do was look at her, so naturally, she wanted the opposite.

"I will escort you into Narnia to visit your sister, as I promised." He hesitated, tightening his jaw as he considered how to continue. "But it may not be prudent or wise for me to accompany you for the duration your visit. However hopeless, I should continue my search, and regardless, public relations is not my specialty and I would prefer not to--"

"--Garsiv, I asked you to come so that my sister could become familiar with you. This is important to me."

He could never remain particularly calm for long. His hands squeezed into fists at his sides and tension crept into his shoulders. "Why should it matter to me if it is so important to you? We barely know each other."

"You know that isn't true."

Yes, he did. He knew it better than he wished to admit to himself, which was why he didn't. His teeth ground together in frustration and he shook his head; clearly she did not understand, but he knew he could not expect anything else. It upset him more deeply than he expected.

"I won't go, Attina," he said gruffly. "I'm sorry."

For a few moments, he thought he sensed anger from her. Vindictive as he was, that was his preference. She so rarely grew truly angry and he felt that anger was something he was qualified to deal with. Not... whatever else it was that she preferred to do. But the furious aura subsided, much to his dismay, and when she spoke, her voice was quiet, almost concerned.

"You're worried, aren't you?"

He turned on her, this time unafraid to look her in the eye despite the consequences it might bring. His gaze was on fire and he did not bother to try to temper it as he took a bold step toward her, which predictably did not deter her.

"How dare you call me a coward."

"That is not what I said at all," she replied coolly, lifting a brow and crossing her arms over her chest. "Being worried is not remotely the same thing as cowardice. You did not mind this before."

"Things change," he said.

"Why?" It sounded like a demand, and coming from Attina, it gave him brief pause. He blinked at her, taken suddenly off his guard by her.

"I have no desire to make enemies of Narnia. I fear I will if I am the one to go there. Had you the option, you would be much better off taking my brother Tus with you. He is the born and bred king, not me. I wage war."

Attina frowned at him, her pretty mouth creasing downward in disapproval as she gazed at him, clearly unhappy with his response. He did not understand her again. He knew it because he knew that look. It came about whenever they had a miscommunication. "Garsiv, this trip has nothing to do with goodwill between Narnia and Persia. Not everything is political."

"What else would it be, for me?"

He did not expect her to step forward, or to pull his face down to hers to kiss his lips with a certain finality that sought to prove her point more than anything else. For a moment, he considered pushing her away, to continue a fight even against a hopeless foe. But he recalled something a tutor of his once said: that the greatest leaders must know how to accept defeat before they could know what victory truly was.