|Summary:||Before leaving for war, Nicodemus says farewell to his favorite Septa.|
|Date:||02/05/12 (OOC Date)|
|Related Logs:||A Study Of Stars, Nimbus In The Library|
|Nicodemus's Room — Braeburn House|
It's a strange and somber day, the one before the Groves men are fated to leave and join the King's army against the would-be Usurper, Baratheon. Rosanna has come and gone from Nico's room to go into Kittridge's or perhaps her own to weep dramatically a little more (with the door left just a crack open to ensure her wretched brothers and father will fully hear how she suffers). Nicodemus is peering down at his bed, with its assorted bundles and packs covering it. One hand scratches idly at the back of his head as he contemplates what he has yet forgotten.
It's a rare circumstance indeed that will bring the Septa to Nicodemus Groves' room in the daytime — in fact, it's never happened before. Even for a holy woman — though it's been established she's not so much — such a thing would be highly improper. But here she is, slipped inside in a wink and leaning back to shut the door behind her. She eyeshifts, looking elaborately innocent, mirthful, and impish at once. "You know, now that I've snuck in, I've no real idea how to sneak out again." She purses her lips in faux-consternation. "I might just have to stay until night."
Nicodemus looks up as the door closes, and he quirks a faint smile as he looks over at the rather un-septony septa. "Someone else will come in here, eventually, you know," he points out. "What will you do then, pretend to be a desk?"
"You've never seen me pretend to be a desk," counters Day, going to sit beside his pack on the bed. She tips her head back to look up at him. "How do you know I'm not positively excellent at it? I could be simply uncanny."
"You're far too lovely to be a desk," Nicodemus answers, opening up one of the bags to check through it again. "And you haven't any drawers."
Day gasps. "Really, Nic, what kind of Septa would go around without drawers?" She flashes a big, sweet smile at him — she's punny!
Nicodemus arches a brow, doing his best to look somber and austere, rather than bemused. "I can think of one or two."
"I haven't the faintest idea to whom you could be referring," says Day, loftily, looking primly away. Her eyes soon return to him, however, and with them her grin. After a moment she sighs and kicks his ankle. Not so hard as Rosanna might, but it's the thought that counts. "I'm using my wiles on you, you know. Be a darling and be won, won't you?"
Laughing a little, Nicodemus cinches the bag shut and begins gathering them up and setting them down on the floor so the bed's a bit more usable. Then he steps in front of her and leans down, towards and over the septa, stroking her hair lightly. "You don't keep very quiet," he murmurs. "You'll get us found out."
Day's lashes lower as he leans in; she tips her head very slightly, so their lips are just a breath apart. "You like it," she reproaches softly, trailing her fingertips lightly down his arm. "It excites you — the danger, the forbidden, the power you have over me." She kisses his cheeks, his brow, his eyelids, hand cupping his jaw and thumb tracing his lower lip. "I couldn't let you go without saying goodbye," she says with a note of sweet melancholy.
His lips lift in a soft smile and his chin tips so that their mouthes meet, just a warm, teasing brush. "I do like it," he admits, "but Rosanna wouldn't. I'll be back, you know. This isn't really goodbye."
"I know," says Day, not sounding much convinced. She falls back to lie on the bed with a sigh. "So I keep telling Rose. And myself."
"You have so little faith in me?" Nicodemus asks, dropping onto his side next to the septa and letting his fingers play idly with a bit of her skirt.
"I have faith in the gods, faith in the Goddess — am I now supposed to have faith in men, as well?" Day turns her head to look at him, brows aloft and expression wry. She brushes her knuckles across his cheek. "I have as much faith in you as it's possible to have in any man, my love… but there is only so much in your control. I fear for you," she whispers, her expression troubling. "For Kit. For Tommas. For all our good men. Wars are cruel and capricious things."
"Not all men," Nico answers softly, "Just one. This is a righteous cause, Day. We go to preserve our king, to defend the line of succession. The Father knows we're in the right, the Warrior will take our side. I'll keep Kitt safe, and so will Tommas, if I cannot." He turns his head to kiss those knuckles. "We'll all come home. I believe that."
Day turns onto her side as he speaks, the better to see him. "Just one," she whispers. She nods, drawing a breath. "Will you carry my favor?" she asks, after a moment of hesitation.
"A septa's favor?" Nicodemus asks, the words rather a contradiction in terms. But, then again, what about the pair of them is not a contradiction? His smile softens as he nods, cupping Day's cheek gently in his roughened palm. "I will."
She chuckles, lowering her lashes. "Well. It's a septa-y favor, at least." Nico is probably the only person so familiar with what the septa wears beneath her clothes as to recognize the pendant she draws from her bodice, slipping the chain free of her slender neck. It's the symbol of the Triune Goddess — Maiden, Mother, and Crone as one: the heresy at the heart of her personal beliefs. Three circles interlocked, each contained within its own petal-shaped ray. It's both simple and intricate, made of muted, glowing platinum, the design unsullied by jewels or other ostentation.
Nicodemus is silent as Day removes the necklace she's worn since he's known her. He studies the little pendant, but his hand doesn't yet reach for it. He looks up to the Septa's face, instead. "Day," he whispers, "I cannot take this…"
"Of course you can," Day argues softly, slipping the chain over his head. "You're going to bring it back to me."
Smiling softly, he tucks the pendant beneath the collar of his shirt before he shifts, leaning over the septa and claiming her mouth in a kiss that is anything but gentle.
Day arches up into that kiss, fingers threading into his hair. Her breath is short, her skin flushed when she can finally speak. "Win, and win quickly," she whispers against his mouth, thoughts broken up with kisses she can't quite let go. "Goddess, how I'll miss you…"
"And I, you," Nicodemus whispers against her mouth. His hand pushes though her hand, curling into a fist until it's likely no longer comfortable. He nips, quickly, at her throat. "We will win," he murmurs. "And then, we'll be home again."
There's a sharp gasp as he pulls her hair, underscored by the sweet, palpable shiver running through her body. She mewls softly as he nips her throat. "All my dreams will be of you, until then…" Day breathes out, drawing her nails slowly down his back.
"All of them?" Nicodemus murmurs. With the others awake and about, there's not much time for a tryst. His other hand goes to his trousers, before he moves to hike up her gown and discover whether or not he was right about the drawers.
"All of them," Day replies ardently, fierce kisses muddling the words. "Night and day. Just as it is now." She reaches up and back to brace herself against the headboard, legs twining around him. And it is true — in her present state, she'd make a very poor desk.
He laughs a little in triumph for his guess, now proven correct. "Night and day," he repeats and then, with a grin, "Knight and Day. Just like it is now." Pressing his mouth roughly to hers, he demands another scalding kiss as he claims her.
It's a hurried encounter, frantic, urgent, but no less ardent for that. When they are both spent, Day rolls over and kisses him, long and deep and sweet, intense and intent as though she's trying to commit him to memory — to imprint him on her every sense. "I love you," she whispers.
"I love you, too," Nicodemus whispers, though the words are more melancholy than joyous. A sad confession of a man who knows he's already doomed. He softly returns the kisses before heaving a quiet sigh. "I'm third in line. Maybe I'll never have to marry."
"I've already told you, I don't care if you marry," Day asserts, soft but vehement in that conviction. "The world must be peopled — and besides, you'll have adorable children unless you choose someone extremely ill-favored." She smiles against his lips. "So long as it's me you love, I'm content. More than content — delirious."
"You're also a terrible septa," Nicodemus teases fondly, tugging Day close and wrapping her in his arms. "But I love that, too."