#shajaela

Perhaps the sweetness was not all down to the flowers, though—Jaela was sitting cross-legged on a cushion, pinching fogweed from a little tin. Its earthy-sweet smell was compounded by the scent of molasses. Shasi watched her with interest, but neither of them spoke for a while.

At length, V’jaela said, “Can you hand me that, please?” and reached past Shasi to indicate a small silver snuffbox. Shasi picked it up, and was surprised to find it was cold to the touch. She lifted it to inspect it—it was small, about the size of Shasi’s palm—and round, the metal patinaed to black in the recesses of its relief. Like many things about V’jaela, it was Thavnairian—the repeating geometric patterns spoke to that, finials winding amongst the flowers. What Shasi had taken for gems at the center of each rosette were, she realized, minuscule ice shards.

After a moment, she handed it over with a wry smile. V’jaela returned the expression, and there was no impatience in it. She plucked the lid off to reveal a dry brick of sandy color. There was something faintly spicy about the smell. “My father was from Thavnair,” she said as she broke off a bit, crushing it and mixing it with the fogweed shisha. “But my mother—well, one of my mothers—was from Sharlayan.” “And the other?” Shasi wondered. “Gyr Abania,” she replied. “She was a red mage too,” V’jaela continued, placing the bowl atop a hookah that sat before the pair, glittering in the sun. “Anyway, this curious bit of syncretism makes me think of them.” She closed the snuffbox, setting it aside, and snapped a thin metal plate into place atop the clay bowl. Atop that, she set a fire crystal.

Thin wisps of smoke rose in the afternoon air as V’jaela wiped her hands clean and sat back. She half-lounged over the pillows scattered across the floor, stretching out a hand to trail her fingernail along Shasi’s arm. The invitation went unspoken, but Shasi took it anyway, stretching out on her side. V’jaela curled one bare arm around Shasi’s shoulders, playing lightly with her hair.

There was only the one hose, not that either of them minded sharing. There was something elegant about the way that V’jaela handled herself—though it really only made sense; doubtless she had far more experience.

The glass sweated, beads of condensation catching the colors of sunset, and the world grew more distant, the edges of Shasi’s concern dulling. They took turns with the hookah, and in between drank honey lemonade with sprigs of mint, and Shasi allowed herself to simply enjoy the feeling of warm skin against her own. She traced the shape of Jaela’s clan markings, which tracked like dark tears from the inner corner of her eye down her cheeks.

Jaela leaned up to kiss her, gentle but inexorable. She tasted of smoke and spice and the lingering sweetness of honey lemons. The night deepened around them, and Jaela pulled her close for warmth, her lips lingering over Shasi’s skin.

“I want to try something,” Shasi said. Jaela’s eyes were alert then, mismatched and luminous. She nodded. “We can …” Shasi shifted her weight, propping herself up on one elbow, pressing Jaela back against the blankets with her hip. Their legs tangled together, their tails intertwining. “Take it out of me,” Shasi said, and took a long pull from the hookah. Then she leaned down to fit her mouth to Jaela’s own.

It’s slow, unhurried at first; Shasi let her breath all but trickle into Jaela’s mouth. She set the mouthpiece down to slip her hand under Jaela’s head, fingers knotting in her hair to hold them together. Jaela breathed in, her kiss desperate, sucking almost, drinking in the air and the smoke until there was nothing left in Shasi’s lungs. Shasi only held tighter then, her hand a fist in crimson hair. Her other arm slipped about Jaela’s shoulders, hand clamped. Jaela struggled against that hold only to slip her hands under Shasi’s shirt, her nails trailing over her back.

Shasi breathed in; her turn then to suck the air from Jaela’s lungs. The taste of smoke was weaker, commingled with the sweetness of Jaela’s mouth, and Shasi shifted her weight to lie more firmly atop the other woman, as though pressing the breath from her. She counted the seconds, breath passing from lungs to lungs—in and out between the pair of them, hazy with the smoke and dizzy with the lack of fresh air. Her pulse was palpable somewhere behind her eyes, as real and immediate as the feeling of Jaela’s hardening nipples through the silk of her shirt. Shasi drew back, gulping fresh air. Jaela shuddered, panting. It was a sweet sound, hot and desperate.

“That’s where we met,” Shasi said, lifting her head lazily to point out the pathway that wound toward the massive roots of the still grander baobab. “I know,” V’jaela said. “He told me about it.” That intrigued her, and pricked at her heart. “He did?” Shasi asked, rolling onto her side to pillow her head on her arm. V’jaela was intently arranging something on plates, her movements shielded by the large wicker basket set between the pair of them. She did not look up from her task as she replied. “Of course. It was an incident involving the Sultana, after all. It had to be documented with the Flames.” “Oh,” Shasi said, feeling foolish. V’jaela glanced over, a smile quirking her full lips. “Don’t make those sad eyes,” she teased. “I guess I was hoping for something more personal than an incident report.” “Well, you know him,” V’jaela said. “Even his reports are colorful. Anyway, what does it matter if it wasn’t love at first sight?” Shasi swept a hand over the picnic blanket, then pushed herself up to sit. “It doesn’t, but …” “It’s nice to think someone speaks well of you when you’re not around,” V’jaela finished. “He did.” She set the plate beside Shasi at last, moving the basket so that she could scoot closer.

The tomatoes glistened like jewels in the sun, crimson and gold, the brilliant green of basil interspersed. Shasi could smell garlic, vinegar, bread, and her mouth watered. Then she saw the other plate, laden pastel pink morsels dusted with sugar, their regular cub shapes scattered and stacked with abandon. Shasi reached for one of the sweets, and V’jaela slapped her wrist.

“Eat,” V’jaela admonished. “What did you think I was going to do with it?” Shasi couldn’t help but laugh. “Real food first.” Shasi sighed, as if beleaguered, and took the bruschetta from the plate.

The first bite was perfect—the crunchy texture of the bread, the softness of the tomatoes; sharp tang of acid, all heightened by the flakes of salt clinging to the tomatoes’ flesh. Shasi groaned, and V’jaela smiled in satisfaction, shifting her weight so that the pair of them rested shoulder to shoulder.

V’jaela leaned her temple against Shasi’s shoulder. “You’re welcome,” she said. “Mm. Yes,” Shasi said, hastily swallowing her next bite. “Thank you.” Then, after a moment of further rumination: “Why are you doing this, again?” “Because he likes you,” V’jaela said. “That’s enough?” “I like you too.”

Any further conversation on that point was forestalled by the approach of heavy footfalls and the jangling, like chains, of a gaudy belt of coins. V’jaela lifted her head from Shasi’s shoulder, glancing back, and cursed. “Cyclops,” she said.