#sejashe

Ashe closes her eyes for a moment as the hot edge of horn touches her lips and the sweet steam wraps around her senses. A million memories, intangible fireflies of feelings and moments in time, spark to life. She sips and tastes the sharp blend of spices, alcohol and nostalgia.

  When she opens them again, Sejuani is looking directly at her.

  Never been one to shy away from eye contact, that weathered old warrior.

  “For all we speak of unity, the blood of your tribe being the same as the blood of mine, I will confess that nobody makes glögg quite like the northerners do.”

  Sejuani raises an eyebrow at Ashe and takes a pointed sip from her simple oxhorn mug without ever dropping her stare. She sets the mug down on the table between them.

  “It’s sweeter than I like it,” she says. Just another way for her to insinuate the weakness of southern tribes, Ashe supposes.

  “Well, I’m sure I’m not the only Avarosan who appreciates your hospitality.”

  Sejuani grunts.

  “First night won’t mean much. We’ll see how much they like us when we wake them up hungover to start a twelve day hunt with no guarantee of bringing back food and the warmth of solid buildings a distant memory.”

  Sejuani looks out across the greathall and takes another gulp of the hot spiced wine, apparently forgetting that she just declared it isn’t to her taste.

  “It will be good for them,” Ashe says, hoping she’s speaking the truth, hoping this repairs the old wounds between their people instead of ripping them back open and filling them with fresh grit.

  Sejuani grunts again, cold blue eyes more interested in their myriad followers than in engaging with Ashe any further.

  She allows the conversation to settle into the concave of this particular low, taking another indulgent pull of the glögg. What she wants to point out is that while the recipe for this drink (sweet with the nutrition of the boiled fruits that will see their energy and health through the dark lean months of winter) is a northern one, the ingredients are sourced in the south of the Freljord.

  But Sejuani knows that, and to point it out would come across as either gloating or preaching.

  Things are strange, tense, uncertain – this is a dance of diplomacy that few of them remember ever having learned the steps for, and all are wary of stepping on the wrong toes.

  Ashe can feel the edge keenly for the first half of the evening, but before she starts to regret forcing this on her people, one of her archers – Uld the Younger, from the shape of his beard – bellows a punchline to an ancient faux-proverb that makes his entire table crack open with startled laughter.

  Suddenly the hall boils over with enthusiasm. Every man and woman is champing at the bit for the chance to deliver the funniest story or the cleverest joke, and the two tribes produce their greatest storytellers one after the other, competing to out-delight one another.

  From their place of honour, separate from the rest of the rabble and on display as the paragons of peaceful coexistence, Ashe and Sejuani share a look.

  Feeling bold, Ashe slides her heavy boot across the floor and nudges Sejuani’s foot playfully.

  Eyes of ice survey the situation; Ashe, the mug, the happy crowd, and back to Ashe again.

  Ashe wonders if that look in Sejuani’s face means something like maybe this will actually work.

  Someone – Winter’s Claw, not Avarosan – comes and refills Ashe’s mug. She allows herself more of the pleasant burn of its embrace, thinking fleetingly of the heat of another sort of embrace entirely.

  Sejuani nudges her foot back and leans in to murmur in her particular mocking growl, “Don’t go getting too drunk now, your majesty.”

  “What makes you think I can’t hold my liquor?” she teases back, putting a friendly hand on the nearest forearm. Sejuani doesn’t seem to mind – in fact, Ashe seems to have more of her attention than she’s had all night.

  “Don’t forget I’ve seen you drunk before,” Sejuani says, a smile threatening.

  “And I you,” Ashe says, with a quirk of her eyebrow that makes Sejuani’s face flush.

  Looks like she’s suddenly remembered the particulars of the last time they were a little inebriated around each other.

  Just a kiss, but just a kiss is apparently enough to fluster the warlord.

  Ashe begins to suspect she isn’t the only one feeling the alcohol.

  “This is nice,” Ashe says.

  “It is,” Sejuani agrees reluctantly.

  “Gods willing, it is sustainable.”

  Sejuani grunts, but allows a quiet smile.