|Summary:||Alek. Day. The wee small hours of the morning. Some things are all in the timing.|
|Related Logs:||Redirecting Impropriety and The Last Dance.|
|Tournament Campgrounds — The Twins|
|The common green at the center of the camps. There's grass and some large rocks.|
|26th day of Fifthmonth, 289 AL|
Septa Day, for all her diurnal naming, is prone to prowl at night. After she seen her charge safely to bed, her mind is a busy place, and so the very small hours of the morning find her walking barefoot in the cool, dewy grass, soaking her hem of her shift. She has a shawl wrapped about her, and her hair in a loose plait over her shoulder.
Alek has given up, has given up for hours, even. Likely, part of that giving up is why he is now sprawled drunkenly on the grass there, propped up against a rock as he swishes the flask of alcohol in his hands. The damp and cool of the night doesn't seem to concern him, soaking somewhat into the simple tunic that he wears. "Septa, septa, may the gods look—Fuck, not something about a Dornish pig," he calls lightly, drunkenly, towards the woman when he catches sight of her.
Day turns, blinking, stifling what would likely be — were all the world not asleep — a rather loud and bright peal of laughter. She smiles broadly at the drunken knight, shaking her head. "Were you trying to say something in particular, just now, or have you moved on to uttering words at random?" she inquires, stepping over to sit by his side. Apparently, the wet doesn't bother her, either.
"'m not sure. I remember a joke that someone once told me about a septa, but all I can remember is Dornish pig. That cannot be right," Alek offers with a wry laugh of his own, fingers lifted to rake through carelessly mussed blond hair. He winces at the movement, but does it anyways. "So, septa. Septa Day."
"If you remember, later, you must tell me," says Day, pulling her knees up and wrapping her arms about her shins, girlishly. "Ser," she reflects, all gentle amusement. "Ser Alek."
Brow curving upwards even as his lips pull into an easy, crooked smile, Alek muses, "I had to have a septon tell me you were a septa. Never would have figured it, myself."
"I've been told I'm a bad septa," admits Day, smiling, "based on some criteria of prudish unpleasantness and hypocrisy that's supposed to convey holiness. Or something." Slender shoulders lift in a shrug. "But the Groves seem to appreciate me."
"You do seem very appreciable," Alek drawls lightly, playfully. A bit drunkenly. Perhaps that is why he lifts a free hand to trace a knuckle along the curve of that shoulder where she draws his attention to it, smile still playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Hah," says Day, grinning at that. "Thank you, I think." She doesn't seem to mind the touching; it goes unremarked. "Why are you out here all alone, this time of night, Ser Alek? I'd have thought a man like you would be tangled up in the sheets with someone, hours past."
"I gave up, hours past," admits Alek carelessly, drawing his knuckles down her arm in a slow brush where she does not stop him. "When I was abandoned by a woman that no one could compare to."
Days laughs again, shaking her head. "I wonder if women ever actually believe things like that," she muses. "Or if it's simply coin of the realm — the things that must be said, in some form or another, to demonstrate a requisite amount of effort in the seduction."
A warm laugh infuses Alek's words even as he murmurs playfully, "Would a knightly man such as myself lie to a septa?" His fingers brush over bare skin finally where his hand finds hers, fingers curving to claim and capture Day's hand to lift it to his lips.
"Well. There are lies and there are lies," the septa murmurs, eyes following her hand to his lips. "The hyperbole of flirtation is treasured by the Maiden, I think, rather than judged by the Father. Then again, moral relativism is part of what makes me a bad septa."
"Would you ever believe me if I said it was not a lie, Septa Day?" Alek says slowly, words drawled and softened by alcohol as he drags his lips over her knuckles, not a proper kiss at all. "If I cannot have your company tonight, I will sleep here, alone."
"No, sweet ser… probably not," she replies with a soft smile. "Though I would believe the latter part. Having given up hunting — but not drinking — hours ago, I do not think much could motivate you from this spot for what remains of the night."
Alek breathes a laugh against Day's skin, shaking his head slowly before he murmurs in correction, "If I had wanted prey, I could have found one, easily. I was not hunting, ever, septa."
By ever, he means tonight, obviously.
Certainly, any other interpretation would strain credulity. "Mm?" inquires Day, turning slightly toward him. "Then what were you about?"
"Only being drawn helplessly to your bright beauty, and your wit," Alek replies slowly, his flask abandoned to lift his fingers to golden hair and capturing a bit between his fingers as if it were truly gold.
She laughs again, soft but bright. "You are a very charming man, Ser Alek," she murmurs, lashes lowering briefly as she watches his fingers in her hair.
Alek's grin flashes, almost boyish where he is drunk, as he questions wryly, "For what it is worth?" Then he is shifting, a slow, carefully movement where he takes precaution against drunken mishaps. He leans forward in an attempt to steal a light kiss.
Stealing might not be quite the right word — can one steal what's so sweetly given? Their lips meet and linger; she tastes him with a velvet sweep of her tongue. "You're very much in your cups, ser," she whispers, smiling in the breath of space between then.
"It is a shame you are not," Alek murmurs lowly, his own smile brightening for a moment at her reaction, perhaps. His fingers move to bury within bright hair even as his lips claim hers again, demanding with desire.
She catches her breath as he threads his fingers in her hair, rising to meet his demands with her own desire. Her fingers find purchase in his hair, in turn, and she softly bites his bottom lip, dragging it between her teeth. "Why is that?" she breathes.
Alek laughs, a surprised sound that catches in his throat, as if he did not expect to be asked such. "Because then we would be matched," he replies wryly, his thumb brushing at the corner of her lips with a bit of incredulity at his good luck.
"There are certain things for which I prefer my senses sharp," Day murmurs, turning her head to brush her lips over the pad of his thumb. "And I will admit, I tend to prefer the same of my lovers." She chuckles, kissing him sweetly. "At least not stumbling drunk. Alas, if only I'd not been called away, earlier."
"Alas, alas," Alek repeats, only laughing again against her lips before he moves away to lean back against his rock. "I knew it seemed too good to be true."
"Mm," agrees the septa, combing her fingers affectionately through his hair and leaning down to brush her lips against his ear. "Timing is everything. It was lovely to see you again, all the same, Ser Alek. I certainly return to bed warmer than I left it."
"The gods curse timing with a Dornish pig." Wry humor brushes over his words, however, accepting even where disappointment touches Alek's smile. He catches at golden hair one more time, twining it lightly around his fingers before letting it slip softly through. "It was a pleasure, Septa Day."
Day kisses his forehead. "Sleep sweetly," she bids him, then returns to her camp, her tent, her cot… to do the same.