Chapter 1.

On the boat from Carthak, a peace which may or may not be so innocent.

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The hypnotic effects of the sea voyage

Could probably be blamed on the mermaids

Who are drunk and up to no good down below

Making the waves beat in such a way

That he can feel her breast on his arm every time the boat sways.

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Numair thinks it has been a really long time since he has been this particular combination of seasick, drunk, hung-over, and in shock. But they are half-way between what may as well be two different worlds, and he has been drinking Alanna's questionably-medicinal brew (with questionably-beneficial effects; he is still as sea-sick as ever), so all he can do for now is smile half-druggedly at Daine, who is tucked away into the corner of his bunk, chatting happily about what she learned from the dolphins. All things considered, he could be in a worse mood.

She smiles back and shakes her head at him.

"You're in a state." She informs him. She's right. It's odd – this sudden change of pace, of setting. There aren't many distractions on the boat. He spends a lot of time thinking ("You think too much," Daine likes to say). He thinks of Ozorne. And also of Ozorne fifteen years ago, when his eyes were full of something else, not hate, and they stood shoulders pressed together and were young and bright and, arguably, in love. He thinks of Varice – who is brilliant but who never wanted that brilliance, and that is her tragedy. Of Lindhall, who had been whithering and who would have continued to whither into nothingness. He thinks of the slaves, the animals, the thick heavy heat of Carthak, its syrupy flavors, deep poisonous currents, and the walls of the palace sticky with magic. And Daine, in all the purity and fire of her spirit, amidst that muck. With its sticky tendrils creeping up and over to her. He feels a swell of protectiveness, and something else he can't quite name, but its not a bad feeling.

"Scoot." He says, getting up and moving over to sit next to her on the bunk. She does, and settles into the curve of his side, and sighs a happy little sigh, and he tightens his arm around her. It's a narrow space so he can feel her press all along his length, a fluid line of warmth.

Maybe it's not such a bad thing, he thinks, to have this week-long repose imposed. The first few days after – everything – things had been a little awkward between them. She'd been intermittently possessive and frustrated with him. He even thought she was angry with him when he spent a night, again, with Varice. But the boat ride had rocked them back into an equilibrium. Away from a court of judging eyes, they spend time together as before, in an innocent peace.

He vaguely notes that her mood has shifted from the light chatter moments ago. He is not sure if this is because he moved to sit with her. He thinks of asking, but before he can, she turns a little more into his side, and says, as though reading his mind,

"I'm OK, I promise. This is just – it's nice. I know this sounds crazy, but I almost wish we could stay here for longer. There's just a lot to deal with, once we get to home. And I do want to see Cloud, and Onua and my Rider friends, and everyone. But there's a lot of other stuff, too. And this feels – protected."

"I know." He responds.

She twists around a little more and smiles up at him, and he feels all the love and trust and warmth that's in her gaze. It's like physical temperature change in the room.

He pushes a couple of curls from her face, and then – just because he can, just because it's them, they're alone, there's no one else, there's no reason for him to stop – he continues, running his fingers down the curve of her cheek. Her skin is soft and warm, just a little weathered by the salt winds above, and he vaguely wonders why it had never occurred to him to do this particular motion before. He retraces the path a number of times, though it's different, because she leans into his hand, a little, and now his entire palm is touching her face.

He must be drunk, or drugged, or hypnotized by the rocking boat and the warmth and stillness of the cabin. But again there is no good reason to stop – so he slides his hand over her shoulder. He feels the delicate line of her collar bone. His fingers press to the pulse point at her neck (the skin so soft just there) and he vaguely half-notes that it flutters a little fast. She doesn't say anything, but very quietly exhales. There is a part of him that knows that his breath has quickened too, and there's a tightness stirring in his belly and groin that's familiar, but not this this setting. That part of him is very far away. Maybe back with his sensible, perfectly sober self in the bright lights of the shoreline. In this cabin, it is dim. There's a pleasant buzzing in his head, and his skin feels extra sensitive. Especially where he is touching her.

He traces his hand down her side, feels the outlines of her rips through her shirt. A small voice in the back of his mind says, maybe he should stop this, maybe this is not an appropriate thing to do. But that voice is far away and noncomitant. His face feels warm, and when his fingers catch the bit of skin over her hip where her shirt had ridden up, she arches up just a little bit into him. He turns his face into her curls, she smells like the sea now, but he likes the warmth of her nearness.

She makes a very quiet little noise when he absently brushes her hip bone. He's not aware that he catalogues it.

And he thinks about taking it further without really thinking about it. What it would be like to drop the pretense of the light touch and take his palm, broad and firm, and press it down her thigh. And hook her knee, pulling it over his leg, to bring them even closer, pressed along the entire length of their bodies. And he would slide his hand, almost rough and almost drunk, all the way up against the skin of her back to her neck line. And feel her arms intertwine around his neck. And she would turn her face against the side of his head and he would hear her breathing, quick and a little shaky. And –

His mind doesn't go any further, it stops right there as though there's an invisible magical force field. Because at this point, his idea about their relationship still stands rock solid. He's not even aware there's something more to go on to. He slows his motion, just traces a small, barely significant pattern against her shoulder.

Eventually she drifts to sleep, and he magics his black robe over to them, draping it like a blanket. He falls asleep with her right there, his hand curled around to rest flat against the small of her back, underneath her bunched up shirt. It doesn't occur to him to be truly self-conscious about their relationship until a few days later, when Alanna, green and queasy, fixes him with an intense violet gaze and says,

"I think you need to be careful, Numair."

.

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A/N: I have always loved this series, and I love these two in particular. So it's coming out. Standard disclaimers apply.