Good, that had the intended effect. He quite likes the look of her smile. "I imagine so," he says with a grin. "She made them pay for kidnapping her sons, of course. With her knife."
She quiets, letting her hand move enough that she can peer through her fingers at him. "Of course she did. They dared threatened her family, her honour. They should pay with their lives."
She settles back, swapping the glass between her hands so she can lift the one with the wine spilt onto it to her lips, pressing her mouth softly to the side of her finger to kiss away the spilt wine. Little movements still, measured, but comfortable enough in his presence to not be bothered that he saw her doing it. "How did you come to know so much of the place? I heard that they were like us -" Paused, a correction. "That they were hidden away, rather." Not kept impoverished.
He finds himself watching her, utterly charmed by all those little gestures. God, he really shouldn't be getting attached here. Soon enough this fight will be over, and she'll return to her newly freed home...
And if he's not careful, he'll give himself away. Goodness. Focus, Miles. "It is a long and sordid story," he says. "But - to put it simply, I am the clone of a Barrayaran Vor lord. Escaped from my captors, then raised on Beta Colony. But I know a significant amount about my progenitor's homeworld." Sorry, Mark. He's stealing your backstory here.
Somewhere, Mark wakes up with a need to punch Miles.
As for Lakshmi - she looks downright alarmed. Her eyes going wide, pushing herself up. She'd heard - a lot of things. Of course she had, some of them she even knew to be UIC propaganda. Others, they had simply been notions she had been raised with, wary, unsure as she watches him. "But you're... so," mouth opening, closing. Trying to be polite. "Slight." She winces even as she says it.
But that wasn't polite either. She struggles, again, the drink didn't make it easier. "Aren't clones meant to be ... impossibly made? Big men and women who have tiger claws and fangs and have purple skin." Alright, that sounded more ridiculous when she heard it out loud, but that was the stories at least. "That was what the... UIC told us, about other places." Definitely, definitely embarrassing.
Miles just winces a bit as Lakshmi seeks politeness and lands on ... probably the best description he could hope for. But it still drives all of this home: he's a lowly mercenary who's just helping her win back her homeworld. After all this is done, they will be strangers again. As it must be. As is best, really; he will not force his ugly body upon her any more than he must. But he will take a large gulp of wine to wash down his pain with.
"Quite slight," he says, giving her a weak smile. "I am quite the failure. In attempting to build my progenitor a better body he could take over, they just duplicated his issues. Which is part of why I was able to escape, I believe." Another small smile. "Clones tend either to be younger body doubles - for transferring - or as outlandish as you say." Sometimes also for transfer, but.
There is a horror on her face - rather than revulsion for him. That had been his fate, that he had only escaped it by chance of what he had been made to be. How could they do that to him? How could anyone? Many, Lakshmi, you have learned that lesson, many would.
And she'd been just as bad.
"I have hurt you. I am very new to... this." Means forgive me, but such things are hard for any royal, after all. Instead, she sits up, putting the wine aside. Though there is no pretending the drunkness she's inevitably falling prey makes her bolder than she would be when she moves closer to him. "Curse them that made you with so little imagination to see all that you might be, curse the Vor Lords then, and me too. Damn them all. If they cannot know you for what you are - my people and this planet, and I as their Queen will always know you for the hope you give us. Even if that comes to nothing. That will always be yours."
Miles' expression is grim. He'd hated the practice even before meeting Mark, but now that he has ... he's even more infuriated by it. Slavers and murderers all of them.
Though - he has to step in to defend his planet a little bit. He hadn't quite expected that reaction - nor how she moves towards him, good god. He has to swallow thickly, looking up at her with no small amount of pink dusting his cheeks. "Do not damn all the Vor Lords," he says hesitantly. "Just the one who commissioned me. The rest of Barrayar abhors the practice, by all accounts." He quiets after that, touched by her words. Hope, eh. He'll take that gladly. "I'll be more than just hope, if I have anything to say about it. We will finish this job successfully." Or die trying.
She watches him still, blinking owlishly as she does, that lightness to his fair face under her gaze. Strange. She knows how she speaks of those that had misused her, her people.
It wasn't kind. "Perhaps I have been fighting too long." young as she is, old as that makes her. "The man today, he would take the oldest who could not pay their taxes up against a wall and set starving dogs on them. When the fester in our desert heat became too much, he sent their widows to clean up the pieces. I let my rage blind me, its true, for every minute those widows wept at my floor for justice. I would have killed him, his men, every single person who served him, if you had not been present."
Those that made her, were as much the cruelty of the UIC as the love of her father, the steadiness of her husband. She did not have his apparently magnanimous nature it seemed, could think of no other way to say it more plainly. But to that she wondered.
"Do you love the Vor, even as they are?" because his words, his stories of them - she couldn't help but think of otherwise if not for the life he had told her.
A small flinch of guilt; he's still not certain he should have stepped in to save anyone. As she says, the whole lot of them likely deserved it. But. Dammit, he hates wasting life, even evil life. The commander and the casualties was enough. "Mercy is a heavy thing to grant," he says after a moment. "I find it best to provide when possible." Even when the cause is that just. God.
As for the Vor ... Another small wince. He should probably not speak of them in such loving terms, but. He just can't help it. "I admit to a certain fascination," he says with a soft sigh. "And I have met those who are not so bad as the stories make them out to be. The Vor lord's parents attempted to adopt me. As their second son."
"That is... Kind of them. To try and right the wrong done to you."
A quiet resolve, of course which doesn't bare mentioning, that if she finds the Vor Lord in question that had caused him such suffering she'd cut his tongue out.
But, a later concern.
"I admit, they're a story of hope to many of us. We heard of the General Vorkosigan, and how he fought off the Cetagandans. So much so that the UIC began to spread awful rumours that he walked with a stump leg, and had a hunch shoulder. That Vor Lords all kept their women in stables and gave their horses the beds instead." A shudder.
"We did not believe all of them, but I am glad to hear they are not all true. Perhaps I will consider the marriage alliance after all." Because the thought that even half of it might be true? Would be enough to put off anyone.
Um. Miles chokes hard on his wine when she mentions a marriage alliance.
Both dizzy with dreamy glee at the thought of being married to Lakshmi -
and horrified by the thought of her being forced into a marriage of
convenience with someone as deformed as he is. God. There’s no easy
resolution to that thought. Either he steers her away for her own good, or
he selfishly tries to set himself up. The first is heartbreaking; the
second, surely evil.
He coughs a little more before finding enough breath to speak. “Both are
quite wrong,” he says firmly. “That description belongs to Lord Vorkosigan,
as you can see by his clone,” he says, gesturing to himself. “And you may
find Vor women in stables, but only because they are thoroughly enjoying
themselves by preparing their steed for a ride.” So none of either of that
shit, good god. He. Hesitated a moment more. Piotr is such a conflicted
influence on him that he’s not even sure what to say of the man.
Best not to.
when will my phones auto correct no longer be upset with vor names and try to fix them
"They ride?" !!!! He has her immediately sidetracked, quite easily so. Reaching for her wine and resuming her drinking. Though for the first time in hours it was cheerfully sipped, not the drowning of misery. "Do you ride as well?"
Wait - hang on. She catches up and this time, it's her turn to choke on the wine. Nearly dropping the cup as she coughed on it. "You're clone of the son of Lord Vorkosigan?"
Re: when will my phones auto correct no longer be upset with vor names and try to fix them
Ah. Oops. He never did quite spell that out, did he? It would be better if
she did not know who his specific “progenitor” is... But perhaps it’s
better this way. The little Lord Vorkosigan cuts a unique figure after all.
“I have no horses here, nor anywhere to ride them,” he says with a real
twinge of longing. He misses the Vorkosigan stables deeply... “But the
Vorkosigans have massive stables, yes. They’re famous for being horse
lords.”
So - there. That’s all the help he can give himself. If she wants him for
his horses, then that seems a fair bargain. As for the other question,
well. He gives her an awkward little bow. “I am,” he says. “That is
something of a secret, though, so I would rather you keep it that way.”
She nods, utterly serious. He has her, after all. Hook, line and sinker. She would never dare betray him. Not now, especially not now - even if she ever would have.
"None will know of it. Not from my lips."
Lips that she purses, thinking. Breathing slowly but heavily for it - a lot. A lot all at once when she was already felt a strung out thread. Pressing - well, that was all dreadfully serious, wasn't it?
"It is... good that you have some notion of horses. We use them a great deal. I was worried... you, your men. When we go ground side. It is will be primarily how we move."
“Good. Thank you.” He believes it too, coming from her. It takes a weight
off his chest.
He breaks his own tension with another sip of wine, letting its warmth
slide over him. Not much more for him, alas; he’ll be asleep all too soon.
“I should be fine on a horse,” he says, waving a hand. “Genetic memory,
apparently.” Complete bullshit, more like, but he won’t be able to hide his
skill if he has to ride. Better she has an excuse ahead of time.
"Naturally." She laughs, more sedately, lighter. Letting her fingers press against her lips with it. Absent more than thought through.
"There is one matter though. You have assured me on all matters that come with the Vor, drinking, tradition, a woman and her knives." She says it very seriously, but there is mischief is in her eyes. "You still have not told me if there is dancing."
God. As if he weren’t already in love with her after watching her weave
through the enemy with her weapons. Watching her smiles like that, teasing
him... he might truly be lost already.
“Every time they drink, apparently,” he says, raising his glass. “Which is
often.”
And teasing him she is most happy to keep on doing, utterly oblivious to whatever else he might be thinking of. For the first time in weeks, she can be just herself. Her people are not watching them, nor his. That she can roll her eyes and swat at him in the air with a flick of her wrist.
"I struggle to call those circumstances fit for dancing, Admiral, no matter how you might protest."
And with no warning what so ever, she slides right off the side of the lounge onto the floor. Sat there and her hand lifts to crook her finger to beckon him down to join her. "You are going to subjected to it later on whether you like such things or not, so you best learn how we attend such things while no one was looking. My triumphant Admiral cannot be seen to embarrass himself at his own celebrations."
On the floor, apparently. Right now. Her eyes are bright, still, as she takes another sip of the wine, the glass was almost empty - that just wouldn't do. So instead she goes fishing for the bottle as she waits for him to join her on the floor. Pouring herself another glass - all interest in maintaining an air of position firmly gone for the moment.
Oh. That - takes him by surprise, for sure. He can't help but rest his own glass on the floor, rising to join her. So too rises the heat in his cheeks; he finds himself staring up at her with nothing short of awe, overwhelmed by how ferociously beautiful she is. God. The way she says my triumphant Admiral, as if he is some previous thing of hers ... He could listen to that forever, he thinks.
"I - am not so bad," he says, awkwardly. "But I am very short. Wouldn't you rather have a taller partner?"
But that gleam in his eye says he wants this so very badly. Lift him if you must, Lakshmi; he would love to dance.
She waves her fingers, shooing the notion off. It hardly mattered, and she is far more pleased that he is playing along. "As if something like that mattered to me, Admiral."
Instead - since she's here, being informal, for all the trust he had given her in telling her the truth of who he was, his past, what had happened to him, she repays it in turn, being herself without the trappings - she goes about clearing them some space on the floor. Twisting her body about to plant one bare foot against the lounge and giving it an almighty push out of the way. It goes with the shove and she settles back, smiling, trickling laughter in through her words. Though this time, she sits far more - decidedly. Her back goes straight, her chest lifts, her legs curl under her delicately so they lay in the say direction. Then she fishes for the material that was draped over her shoulder, bringing it up over her head, resting to drape around her, over her hair. Poised like she were a dancer as fine as the ones her husband once employed.
"But the performance will be for you. So it doesn't matter in any case." She's planning it, apparently. Already working through the motions of how it will be done in some fitfully daydream that winning will be as easy as that. It won't be, they both know that, but the doors are shut, her rebels drink with his crew and it is just them. So maybe, for a little while, as long as no one else knew, it might be forgiven. "We prize beauty, art, colour, all these things. Like you said, tradition." She smiles as she goes, reaching over to fill his glass up in turn.
"But some of it will be strange to you." Definitely, definitely still mischief in her gaze. Settling the bottle back down and sliding it back towards him. "We dance with our eyes, our limbs, each finger and our expression as all one movement, whether they are love songs, songs praising great battles or religious." Her body lowers with the movement, pointedly so, her eyes rising up under her lashes to look at him. Fixed on him exactly, smiling softly. Then rises herself up in one slow motion to demonstrate the control into the movement. "No doubt, for you, it will all be battle songs and love songs. They will touch your feet to bless you and then - "
Her head turns away, and sweeping palm up against her cheek, then peering back at him. Like a lover teasing her beloved her gaze, then drawing her fingers below her eyes as she looks at him. Trying her best to keep a straight face through it all. She knew she wasn't a particularly great dancer. But she enjoyed it, and that was enough. Besides, it only had to be enough for him to know when one of her ladies was flirting with him.
He's lost. He's so lost. The first moment she lifts that cloth over her head and begins to move, he can't help but watch every single movement like a man in the desert who's caught sight of a river. God. Just. All of her. Beautiful, wild, incredibly fierce - and flirting with him? He can't think it could possibly be flirting, could he? But she looks at him like a lover, he thinks, and all this talk of love and battle songs - it makes him utterly dizzy with the joy of it. Keep ahold of yourself, Vorkosigan, he reminds himself. When all this is done, she goes home to her people. And you will just be the odd Admiral who got her there.
A hero to her and her people, hopefully. But that is all he can hope for. He has to remember that, dammit, or he'll never make it back intact. There will be some piece of him left with her when they pat, lost in the gorgeous movements of her body ...
He takes another long sip of his own wine. His expression almost seems to glow in the dim light; he's drunk enough to be a little drunk, bringing rosiness to his cheeks as he watches her with nothing but awe. Maybe she's not a great dancer, but he surely can't tell the difference. She is beautiful. Too beautiful for him to dare besmirch.
"I would - take any dance from you, my lady," he says, his tones hushed. "Battle and love both."
How he looks at her - and it stills her. Like a statue in her movement, but mercifully hidden away in the movements of the dance. She's drunk, she knows that surely. Her fingers are numb, her mouth feels full, and her limbs sluggish. But that doesn't change how his look strikes her, how it soothes in her heart some impossible ache she had learned to call companion. I have been alone too long. He must have a half dozen men and women that fall at his feet, so maybe there wasn't anything to be read into it other than he is kind enough to make her feel beautiful. Perhaps he's just toying with her the same. But for all her lessons in grace, weapons, song, dance and reading and writing - she never had those in flirting, teasing, in knowing how to respond. There had only ever been her husband. He had as surely swept her off her feet and she never had eyes for anyone else but him.
But he was gone now, and she was left unsure for a moment, looking at her Admiral from behind her hands. With how he looks at her, and the sudden realisation that she likes how he looks at her. Not with the difference of a General to Ruler. But right now, she is herself, and he...
Lakshmi swallows. "Love then. I have had enough of battle, for today."
( When had she started thinking of him as hers? )
Her word sticks a moment, rapidly blinking the realisation out of her gaze as she body turns into the next gesture. "She - " I, and she realises, she isn't quite sure if she's playing anymore. " - will invite you to look." It sweeps down herself - unsure, but practised, her eyes lowering, her fingers splaying wide - alapadma, a flower opening - as they fan out and around her chest, above her heart. Then curve back around her stomach, pinching her waist in with the movement, her head rolling back as her legs move. Suddenly, sweeping the other way in the flurry of skirts. The chime of her anklet that was suddenly the loudest sound in the room above her own breathing. To lean forward, far more directly into his space this time.
Her hand hovers, letting him see as she moves near to him. "She will push you, just the once." A demonstration, a playful swat against his shoulder. " -- and then you catch her by the wrist, and tug her in." Her mouth closes with the gesture of her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. Tipping her head just the once, go on then.
Tricky to keep down the fit of nervous giggles. Alone much, much too long. Maybe she ought to have taken up Jhalkari's offer years ago.
He follows her instructions in a dreamy trance. Looking as she invites him, watching the way her fingers splay against her chest (and wondering, with twinge of guilt, how they might look against her with skin bare, leaning over him--) And then around again, skirts whirling, anklet chiming. The moment she comes into his space he's paralyzed, staring up at her, his gray eyes fond and longing and -
Get ahold of yourself, Admiral, he admonishes himself. She is not yours and never will be. And what a cruel concept that would seem to her, probably. Being someone else's. Miles longs so desperately to be someone else's that he hurts but - he can't expect it of anyone else. And he can't expect anyone to desire it of him.
But god does he want it in this moment. Especially when she pauses at the end, gesturing for him to grab her. He gives her a questioning look - really, are you sure? - before he gently reaches forward, taking her hands. Pulling her down to him. And then - holding there, cheeks flushed, staring up at her.
"It's a lovely dance," he murmurs. "I'm very fond."
She goes with his pull, her hand bracing on the floor as she slid forward, down - into him. He had such very lovely eyes. A sky of clouds, all promising rain. Which is a perfectly ridiculous thought. But it is the one she has, so close to him. Her eyes flicking between his.
Her tongue wets her lips. She must be sensible. She must be kind. To him, to herself. "I am glad you like it." She must be selfish, greedy, snatching for balms to her own loneliness, the aches she had never tended simply because he is kind enough to indulge her own silliness. "You will have much of it, I am quite sure. Many men and women would - far better than a lonely widow who is quite drunk."
A forgivable offence, she hopes. He has indulged her so kindly, so far, because she is yet to pull away. A little further and she would be laying across him. Nothing about this is seemly, decent outside of this room. "I fear I make a fool out of myself." Her wrist is still in his hand.
Many men and women, eh? He's far less certain than her right now, it seems. But - he dares not take advantage of this lonely, drunk widow, as she calls herself. Surely doing so would be beyond low, beyond awful to do to someone he has already grown to cherish.
But - god, he can't help but long for her to lean a little closer, to settle down into his lap. Already his body betrays him, damn it all. He shifts slightly. Not letting go, but neither does he pull her in closer. Not yet. "I - daresay these other men and women would not do nearly so well as you." He permits himself one small gesture: to reach up to her cheek, resting his tiny, delicate fingers along the curve of her jaw.
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She settles back, swapping the glass between her hands so she can lift the one with the wine spilt onto it to her lips, pressing her mouth softly to the side of her finger to kiss away the spilt wine. Little movements still, measured, but comfortable enough in his presence to not be bothered that he saw her doing it. "How did you come to know so much of the place? I heard that they were like us -" Paused, a correction. "That they were hidden away, rather." Not kept impoverished.
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And if he's not careful, he'll give himself away. Goodness. Focus, Miles. "It is a long and sordid story," he says. "But - to put it simply, I am the clone of a Barrayaran Vor lord. Escaped from my captors, then raised on Beta Colony. But I know a significant amount about my progenitor's homeworld." Sorry, Mark. He's stealing your backstory here.
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As for Lakshmi - she looks downright alarmed. Her eyes going wide, pushing herself up. She'd heard - a lot of things. Of course she had, some of them she even knew to be UIC propaganda. Others, they had simply been notions she had been raised with, wary, unsure as she watches him. "But you're... so," mouth opening, closing. Trying to be polite. "Slight." She winces even as she says it.
But that wasn't polite either. She struggles, again, the drink didn't make it easier. "Aren't clones meant to be ... impossibly made? Big men and women who have tiger claws and fangs and have purple skin." Alright, that sounded more ridiculous when she heard it out loud, but that was the stories at least. "That was what the... UIC told us, about other places." Definitely, definitely embarrassing.
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Miles just winces a bit as Lakshmi seeks politeness and lands on ... probably the best description he could hope for. But it still drives all of this home: he's a lowly mercenary who's just helping her win back her homeworld. After all this is done, they will be strangers again. As it must be. As is best, really; he will not force his ugly body upon her any more than he must. But he will take a large gulp of wine to wash down his pain with.
"Quite slight," he says, giving her a weak smile. "I am quite the failure. In attempting to build my progenitor a better body he could take over, they just duplicated his issues. Which is part of why I was able to escape, I believe." Another small smile. "Clones tend either to be younger body doubles - for transferring - or as outlandish as you say." Sometimes also for transfer, but.
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And she'd been just as bad.
"I have hurt you. I am very new to... this." Means forgive me, but such things are hard for any royal, after all. Instead, she sits up, putting the wine aside. Though there is no pretending the drunkness she's inevitably falling prey makes her bolder than she would be when she moves closer to him. "Curse them that made you with so little imagination to see all that you might be, curse the Vor Lords then, and me too. Damn them all. If they cannot know you for what you are - my people and this planet, and I as their Queen will always know you for the hope you give us. Even if that comes to nothing. That will always be yours."
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Though - he has to step in to defend his planet a little bit. He hadn't quite expected that reaction - nor how she moves towards him, good god. He has to swallow thickly, looking up at her with no small amount of pink dusting his cheeks. "Do not damn all the Vor Lords," he says hesitantly. "Just the one who commissioned me. The rest of Barrayar abhors the practice, by all accounts." He quiets after that, touched by her words. Hope, eh. He'll take that gladly. "I'll be more than just hope, if I have anything to say about it. We will finish this job successfully." Or die trying.
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It wasn't kind. "Perhaps I have been fighting too long." young as she is, old as that makes her. "The man today, he would take the oldest who could not pay their taxes up against a wall and set starving dogs on them. When the fester in our desert heat became too much, he sent their widows to clean up the pieces. I let my rage blind me, its true, for every minute those widows wept at my floor for justice. I would have killed him, his men, every single person who served him, if you had not been present."
Those that made her, were as much the cruelty of the UIC as the love of her father, the steadiness of her husband. She did not have his apparently magnanimous nature it seemed, could think of no other way to say it more plainly. But to that she wondered.
"Do you love the Vor, even as they are?" because his words, his stories of them - she couldn't help but think of otherwise if not for the life he had told her.
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As for the Vor ... Another small wince. He should probably not speak of them in such loving terms, but. He just can't help it. "I admit to a certain fascination," he says with a soft sigh. "And I have met those who are not so bad as the stories make them out to be. The Vor lord's parents attempted to adopt me. As their second son."
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A quiet resolve, of course which doesn't bare mentioning, that if she finds the Vor Lord in question that had caused him such suffering she'd cut his tongue out.
But, a later concern.
"I admit, they're a story of hope to many of us. We heard of the General Vorkosigan, and how he fought off the Cetagandans. So much so that the UIC began to spread awful rumours that he walked with a stump leg, and had a hunch shoulder. That Vor Lords all kept their women in stables and gave their horses the beds instead." A shudder.
"We did not believe all of them, but I am glad to hear they are not all true. Perhaps I will consider the marriage alliance after all." Because the thought that even half of it might be true? Would be enough to put off anyone.
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Um. Miles chokes hard on his wine when she mentions a marriage alliance. Both dizzy with dreamy glee at the thought of being married to Lakshmi - and horrified by the thought of her being forced into a marriage of convenience with someone as deformed as he is. God. There’s no easy resolution to that thought. Either he steers her away for her own good, or he selfishly tries to set himself up. The first is heartbreaking; the second, surely evil.
He coughs a little more before finding enough breath to speak. “Both are quite wrong,” he says firmly. “That description belongs to Lord Vorkosigan, as you can see by his clone,” he says, gesturing to himself. “And you may find Vor women in stables, but only because they are thoroughly enjoying themselves by preparing their steed for a ride.” So none of either of that shit, good god. He. Hesitated a moment more. Piotr is such a conflicted influence on him that he’s not even sure what to say of the man. Best not to.
when will my phones auto correct no longer be upset with vor names and try to fix them
!!!!He has her immediately sidetracked, quite easily so. Reaching for her wine and resuming her drinking. Though for the first time in hours it was cheerfully sipped, not the drowning of misery. "Do you ride as well?"Wait - hang on. She catches up and this time, it's her turn to choke on the wine. Nearly dropping the cup as she coughed on it. "You're clone of the son of Lord Vorkosigan?"
Re: when will my phones auto correct no longer be upset with vor names and try to fix them
Ah. Oops. He never did quite spell that out, did he? It would be better if she did not know who his specific “progenitor” is... But perhaps it’s better this way. The little Lord Vorkosigan cuts a unique figure after all. “I have no horses here, nor anywhere to ride them,” he says with a real twinge of longing. He misses the Vorkosigan stables deeply... “But the Vorkosigans have massive stables, yes. They’re famous for being horse lords.”
So - there. That’s all the help he can give himself. If she wants him for his horses, then that seems a fair bargain. As for the other question, well. He gives her an awkward little bow. “I am,” he says. “That is something of a secret, though, so I would rather you keep it that way.”
(( LOL I have my autocorrect trained by now ))
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"None will know of it. Not from my lips."
Lips that she purses, thinking. Breathing slowly but heavily for it - a lot. A lot all at once when she was already felt a strung out thread. Pressing - well, that was all dreadfully serious, wasn't it?
"It is... good that you have some notion of horses. We use them a great deal. I was worried... you, your men. When we go ground side. It is will be primarily how we move."
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“Good. Thank you.” He believes it too, coming from her. It takes a weight off his chest.
He breaks his own tension with another sip of wine, letting its warmth slide over him. Not much more for him, alas; he’ll be asleep all too soon. “I should be fine on a horse,” he says, waving a hand. “Genetic memory, apparently.” Complete bullshit, more like, but he won’t be able to hide his skill if he has to ride. Better she has an excuse ahead of time.
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"There is one matter though. You have assured me on all matters that come with the Vor, drinking, tradition, a woman and her knives." She says it very seriously, but there is mischief is in her eyes. "You still have not told me if there is dancing."
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God. As if he weren’t already in love with her after watching her weave through the enemy with her weapons. Watching her smiles like that, teasing him... he might truly be lost already.
“Every time they drink, apparently,” he says, raising his glass. “Which is often.”
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"I struggle to call those circumstances fit for dancing, Admiral, no matter how you might protest."
And with no warning what so ever, she slides right off the side of the lounge onto the floor. Sat there and her hand lifts to crook her finger to beckon him down to join her. "You are going to subjected to it later on whether you like such things or not, so you best learn how we attend such things while no one was looking. My triumphant Admiral cannot be seen to embarrass himself at his own celebrations."
On the floor, apparently. Right now. Her eyes are bright, still, as she takes another sip of the wine, the glass was almost empty - that just wouldn't do. So instead she goes fishing for the bottle as she waits for him to join her on the floor. Pouring herself another glass - all interest in maintaining an air of position firmly gone for the moment.
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"I - am not so bad," he says, awkwardly. "But I am very short. Wouldn't you rather have a taller partner?"
But that gleam in his eye says he wants this so very badly. Lift him if you must, Lakshmi; he would love to dance.
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Instead - since she's here, being informal, for all the trust he had given her in telling her the truth of who he was, his past, what had happened to him, she repays it in turn, being herself without the trappings - she goes about clearing them some space on the floor. Twisting her body about to plant one bare foot against the lounge and giving it an almighty push out of the way. It goes with the shove and she settles back, smiling, trickling laughter in through her words. Though this time, she sits far more - decidedly. Her back goes straight, her chest lifts, her legs curl under her delicately so they lay in the say direction. Then she fishes for the material that was draped over her shoulder, bringing it up over her head, resting to drape around her, over her hair. Poised like she were a dancer as fine as the ones her husband once employed.
"But the performance will be for you. So it doesn't matter in any case." She's planning it, apparently. Already working through the motions of how it will be done in some fitfully daydream that winning will be as easy as that. It won't be, they both know that, but the doors are shut, her rebels drink with his crew and it is just them. So maybe, for a little while, as long as no one else knew, it might be forgiven. "We prize beauty, art, colour, all these things. Like you said, tradition." She smiles as she goes, reaching over to fill his glass up in turn.
"But some of it will be strange to you." Definitely, definitely still mischief in her gaze. Settling the bottle back down and sliding it back towards him. "We dance with our eyes, our limbs, each finger and our expression as all one movement, whether they are love songs, songs praising great battles or religious." Her body lowers with the movement, pointedly so, her eyes rising up under her lashes to look at him. Fixed on him exactly, smiling softly. Then rises herself up in one slow motion to demonstrate the control into the movement. "No doubt, for you, it will all be battle songs and love songs. They will touch your feet to bless you and then - "
Her head turns away, and sweeping palm up against her cheek, then peering back at him. Like a lover teasing her beloved her gaze, then drawing her fingers below her eyes as she looks at him. Trying her best to keep a straight face through it all. She knew she wasn't a particularly great dancer. But she enjoyed it, and that was enough. Besides, it only had to be enough for him to know when one of her ladies was flirting with him.
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A hero to her and her people, hopefully. But that is all he can hope for. He has to remember that, dammit, or he'll never make it back intact. There will be some piece of him left with her when they pat, lost in the gorgeous movements of her body ...
He takes another long sip of his own wine. His expression almost seems to glow in the dim light; he's drunk enough to be a little drunk, bringing rosiness to his cheeks as he watches her with nothing but awe. Maybe she's not a great dancer, but he surely can't tell the difference. She is beautiful. Too beautiful for him to dare besmirch.
"I would - take any dance from you, my lady," he says, his tones hushed. "Battle and love both."
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But he was gone now, and she was left unsure for a moment, looking at her Admiral from behind her hands. With how he looks at her, and the sudden realisation that she likes how he looks at her. Not with the difference of a General to Ruler. But right now, she is herself, and he...
Lakshmi swallows. "Love then. I have had enough of battle, for today."
( When had she started thinking of him as hers? )
Her word sticks a moment, rapidly blinking the realisation out of her gaze as she body turns into the next gesture. "She - " I, and she realises, she isn't quite sure if she's playing anymore. " - will invite you to look." It sweeps down herself - unsure, but practised, her eyes lowering, her fingers splaying wide - alapadma, a flower opening - as they fan out and around her chest, above her heart. Then curve back around her stomach, pinching her waist in with the movement, her head rolling back as her legs move. Suddenly, sweeping the other way in the flurry of skirts. The chime of her anklet that was suddenly the loudest sound in the room above her own breathing. To lean forward, far more directly into his space this time.
Her hand hovers, letting him see as she moves near to him. "She will push you, just the once." A demonstration, a playful swat against his shoulder. " -- and then you catch her by the wrist, and tug her in." Her mouth closes with the gesture of her teeth sinking into her bottom lip. Tipping her head just the once, go on then.
Tricky to keep down the fit of nervous giggles. Alone much, much too long. Maybe she ought to have taken up Jhalkari's offer years ago.
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Get ahold of yourself, Admiral, he admonishes himself. She is not yours and never will be. And what a cruel concept that would seem to her, probably. Being someone else's. Miles longs so desperately to be someone else's that he hurts but - he can't expect it of anyone else. And he can't expect anyone to desire it of him.
But god does he want it in this moment. Especially when she pauses at the end, gesturing for him to grab her. He gives her a questioning look - really, are you sure? - before he gently reaches forward, taking her hands. Pulling her down to him. And then - holding there, cheeks flushed, staring up at her.
"It's a lovely dance," he murmurs. "I'm very fond."
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Her tongue wets her lips. She must be sensible. She must be kind. To him, to herself. "I am glad you like it." She must be selfish, greedy, snatching for balms to her own loneliness, the aches she had never tended simply because he is kind enough to indulge her own silliness. "You will have much of it, I am quite sure. Many men and women would - far better than a lonely widow who is quite drunk."
A forgivable offence, she hopes. He has indulged her so kindly, so far, because she is yet to pull away. A little further and she would be laying across him. Nothing about this is seemly, decent outside of this room. "I fear I make a fool out of myself." Her wrist is still in his hand.
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But - god, he can't help but long for her to lean a little closer, to settle down into his lap. Already his body betrays him, damn it all. He shifts slightly. Not letting go, but neither does he pull her in closer. Not yet. "I - daresay these other men and women would not do nearly so well as you." He permits himself one small gesture: to reach up to her cheek, resting his tiny, delicate fingers along the curve of her jaw.
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