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Chapter Text

Rax

Verb (used without object)

to stretch oneself, as after sleeping.

Past the midwinter months and in the heart of first season of the new year, when the merriment of the festivities has been all but swept away and replaced by the quiet blanket covering of snow, the landscape and its people finally rest. The commoners in the market close their simple stalls early and feast on holiday leftovers with their abundant families, the aristocracy gives thanks to the workers of their estate through means of a handsome bonus and wait for the springtide game to come out from hibernation, and the magicians of the tower finish their extensive research and gruesome training to set off on their annual leave to wherever their whims take them.

The Tower of Magic, unyielding and formidable and reaching impossibly high into the vast sky, has a softness brought about by the snowy flurries dusted about its frame, sticking in a kaleidoscope of ice and snowflakes. The tower stands still and quiet, as tranquil and untouched as the land surrounding, as if suspended in time. Inside bares a similar peace, void of noise and movement, save for the crackling of the fireplace and the master and his wife slumbering in the calm of their humble bedroom at the top of the tower.

He wakes first, not unreasonably early, but early enough that he knows his beloved mess shall not wake for another hour or so at best, and so he waits in their bed and he watches her resting, sprawled in between the sheets. Latte’s golden mane is a wild tangle, (a far cry from his always smooth silver hair) strewn in every which way and direction, with her bangs gone askew and the straps of her gown slipped so far off they seem to have gone missing at first glance. Her mouth twitches and Arwin knows she’s dreaming of him; his name once tumbles softly from her lips and he can’t help the gentle smile that graces his face. The second time she speaks, his name is uttered with such great annoyance despite her current state that he cannot help but smirk, even in her dreams Latte isn’t allowed a moments peace from him. She shuffles in the sheets, pressing herself closer to him in a sleep induced attempt for warmth, with her arms pinned between their chests. Her silk nightgown rides up her thigh as she oh so haphazardly drapes a leg over his, pulling an amused huff from his already entertained state and endearing him to wrap a long arm around her petite waist.

To Arwin, Latte, his Latte, was something of an otherworldly being. She was wild and free spirited, coy and clever, a mischievous performer and enraptured viewer. Always one for being first in line as a spectator in the most scandalous of drama and more often than not getting herself tangled up in said drama, Arwin’s beloved disaster of a wife would forever be his endless source of entertainment. Since the first moment Arwin set his eyes upon her form in the marketplace, Latte had defied his every expectation, standing her ground and running head first into danger armed with nothing more than his absurdly expensive scrolls and her truly odd sense of humour and wit. From that day on, she had piqued his interest in a way none had ever and Arwin quickly realized the young nobleman’s daughter was quite the force to be reckoned with, finding himself many a time be willingly swept away in her misadventures and genuinely enjoying the inevitable ensuing chaos of the aftermath. Arwin had become fond of her enthusiastic imagination and in particular her fiery temper with which he took pride in being the chief source of her own personal vexation. He had never found the insult, dangerous bastard, muttered in such a lovely irritated voice before her. Sure Arwin was as insane and unstable as Latte often told him, no one would contest that least of all himself, but he had always quipped back with ‘…And what does that say about you who has so willingly pledged her life to me, hmmm Miss Fairy…’ , inevitably followed by his cocky smirk and another one of her indignant fits of exasperation. The other men in his surrounding friend (acquaintance?) group both chased after the mysterious foreigner Ibelin in their own personal race for her affection. Ibelin this, Ibelin that, who needed Ibelin when a certain Miss Latte was roaming about inevitably getting herself into the most fascinating series of events, Arwin often found himself thinking.

The soft early morning dawn began to peek its way through the drawn curtains on the other side of the room, its mellow light streaking pastel rays across the foot of the bed. The muted grumble and rustling of the bed-sheets next to him alerted Arwin of his wife’s impending awakening, bringing him out of his thoughts. Unhurriedly, he moved the hand resting on her waist, traversing her small body in a singular tender caress before finally reaching her head, lazily stroking her golden tresses as Latte’s large brown eyes cracked open and met his. She made a noise of protest at his continued attempt to rouse her, already sensing his impish smile and the mischievous mood it no doubt came with.

“Come now Dear Customer, like a bear in winter I see you intend to sleep the day away,” he prompts as her eyes start to slide shut once more.

She groans once in response. His voice takes on an even more mirthful tone.

“What would the people say, dear wife? The wise Lady of the Tower who seems to never be amiss for words can’t even be bothered to properly wish her husband a good morning in high spirits?” His cajoling would undoubtedly end with her being fully awake, this she knows from experience, it just a matter of how quickly he elicits a response. Latte decides this morning she has neither the energy nor the patience to prolong his antics. Her eyes open meet his once again

“How can I have any high spirits when its clear you’ve taken them all for yourself,” she retorts in faux annoyance. The morning had been so cozy and nice in their shared bed, why did he feel the need to ruin it by being a pain in the neck at the first sight of dawn. Sliding her leg off his side (irritatingly he was always a great pillow) and stretching her body her body in the bed, she readjusted herself so that her back was to his chest and a headful of her hair was shoved into his face with most definitely not an ounce of spite. His wife’s pettiness brought out a small snicker that could only serve as a prelude to a devious response.

“Well then, my dear wife,” he murmured against the side of her cheek, coming up slowly to position behind and ever so slightly on top of her frame, “It seems I’ve been quite greedy with the spirits this fine morning. In that case, just for you, I think I shall have some to spare.” She could practically feel his dangerous smirk grow as his face left the side of hers and knew there was no escaping him now. A nuzzle here, a soft kiss there, Arwin languidly made his way down her neck ignoring Latte’s quiet and superficial protests she felt obligated to make, knowing she had no actual intention of stopping him. Why should she anyways, after all the tower master and his wife had the whole day to stay in bed, might as well start the day off the highest of spirits indeed.

Chapter Text

Dishabille

Noun [dis-uh-beel, -bee]

The state of being dressed in a careless, disheveled or disorderly style or manner; undress.

It’s the almost effortlessly easy way in which she can see the shining stars in the all too magnificent night sky, radiant and luminous, creating a path in the sky so vivid it’s almost tangible, that she can find some semblance of peace in her second life, Latte decides. So different from her past life, where the nights were filled with bustling traffic and a cacophony of commuters, where the night sky was nothing more than a computer background and a quiet night was but a figment of her imagination. In her old world, man had taken over nature, bending it to his whim and erasing the memory of fields that would stretch as far as the eye could see and a sky that stretched even farther; here there was not a plane in sight, not even an engine to be heard in the distance. The soft evening is crisp with the dampened chimes of the violet stained night. Just outside her second story window, freshly painted with the lingering drops of the recent misty rain, the crickets chirp nestled in the soft grass while the loud frogs bellow their nightly cries by the pond off to the side. The pond, one of her first memories from when she first became Latte, lies just below her favorite willow tree in a scene where nature’s chorus comes to combine in the silvery song that is telltale of a cool summer night she has come to love. The smell of the wet grass, cool, dewy, and fresh with a tinge of humid musk, is brought to her nose by path of the soft summer breeze that carries over the whole of the estate. There is no light save that of the glittering night sky and glowing moon which peaks through the open window and illuminates her petite figure that rests upon the chaise lying just beneath the sill. 

As she props her chin in the palm of her hand in a scene of serenity and lounges, calves sprawled out past the fabric fringes of her dress, Latte embodies the image of absolute content. She knows she must be a sight to see, her hair a tangled mess ( obviously ), her nightgown rumpled and falling off her shoulders ( who’s surprised), her thoughts vague and lax ( at best ). All in all, ( she knows ) she most definitely makes a tantalizing target for a mischievous monster that only has eyes for her. Latte won’t admit, her pride won’t allow, but she waits, waits in the inevitable uninvited arrival of a magician who confuses her as much as he amuses her as much as he loves her. She knows he’ll come tonight, so annoyingly in tune with her inner most desires he is, that he seems to have a penchant for knowing which nights her insufferable yearning that is the human condition strikes most. The routine is always the same, and yet Arwin’s arrival is as much of a surprise the hundredth time as it was the very first. The wind picks up, lifting her locks and rustling her bangs, as the summer night’s breeze caresses her cheek and tickles her nose. The leaves outside twirl in a whirlpool, a star sparkles like a fading firework, and in a flash he appears, floating just outside her window, arms crossed and stupid smirk abundant, hair so silver that it could be mistaken for the moon. Arwin stands on thin air, his magic floor invisible to the naked eye, and bows in a manner of faux reverence, head tilted slightly to left and betraying the mischievous glint in his eyes. 

“ Dear Customer, won’t you be accommodating and let me in…?” 

His innocent (although nothing is ever innocent with him, especially at this hour of the night) question trails off in a manner that has her waiting for the inevitable smartass comment that’s sure to dispel the gentleman facade he so likes to play and undoubtedly rile her up for a proper nighttime debate. “...Or has your mane already claimed this seat?”

Jackass, she thinks (he knows).

She huffs, but still, Latte makes an effort to play along, she’s in an especially good mood tonight and Arwin is debatably good company. She straightens up in her seat, leaning just enough outside to make it seem like she’s participating in a proper conversation between two civilized adults and not one between an under-dressed drama queen and her ill-behaved partner. 

“Oh powerful magical sir,’ Latte exaggerates, more for herself than anything, “Pray tell why should I let you in?“ 

He bows even lower, adding a hand lift for extra flourish. It’s pointlessly pretentious. She loves it.

“Well my exquisitely charming madam, I would hate to question your manners but it seems I must inform you that it’s only polite.”

Latte quirks a manicured eyebrow, her natural pout coming to a full display. She drums her fingers on the wooden surface below. 

“Dear sir, if it’s manners you question then why have you come calling at such an inappropriate hour, and to a lady’s room no less ! ” This is really where Latte shines, her acting ridiculous and pompous and oh so very on point of a noble lady that the Tower Master can’t help the soft snort that escapes. He’s fond of her eccentric acting, it’s somehow just as entertaining now outside her window as when she used it to con street thugs at the beginning of their shared mutual acquaintance.  A heart attack indeed, he muses.

“ The indecency! The scandal!” Latte proceeds, not missing a beat of course, “How will I ever find a husband now?!” She feigns a swoon with her hand limp across her brow, in a way she assumes the maidens in her favorite books do.

“Fear not my lady,” Arwin’s smirk curls in a way that is indicative of a cheeky response, and she doesn’t ( most definitely does ) like that. “If it’s a prospective husband you're worried about, you shouldn’t. I have it on good account that there can’t be a man on this continent seeking your hand, they’d get trapped in those curls taking my spot!”

Infuriating little shit . She can feel the sudden twitch above her eye, and knows he can certainly see it. Latte’s sure her obvious sign of limited patience reached only fuels his impertinent nature even more.

Alas the bastard continues, “ Although I suppose If you’ve seemed to find yourself in dire straits, I’d be more than willing to make an offer for your hand… just be a dear and say you’ll let me in.” he says that acting as if he’d be doing her a favor, but Latte knows that in spite of, or rather because of her state of disarray the nature of Arwin’s thoughts can’t help but to find her lovely and pleasant and fascinating and far too tempting to resist. His eye’s desperately dart to and from every inch of her being, as if it’s the last time he’ll ever see such a sight.The magician isn’t even being subtle about it this time. She’s acutely aware that the very presence of her one soft shoulder, freed from slipping nightgown and peeking through the curls of her mane bewitches his every thought. That little power she holds over him is the only thing that keeps her mostly sane. She huffs, again. Latte’s too tired to keep up the regency act for much longer.

“You may sit on the sill, not a foot inside, I know what trying to scheme Sir Tower Master.”

The wind flutters over her denial of admission, ruffling his woolen coat but not his humor, the gleam in his eyes ever present. If anything he seems even more amused. How annoying.

“But Miss Fairy,” -she hates that stupid name!- “ it’s so cold out here, what if I freeze? Will you take responsibility for my unseemly demise?” 

“Freeze for all I care, besides I know you can just heat yourself up!” She’s definitely not irritated at all. Well, maybe just a lot.

“What if I promised-”

“Window. Take it or leave it magic man.”

She won’t let him take one step in her room, at least not this late at night, no he gets to occupy her windowsill. Like a bird perched in its roost, Arwin takes his designated seat with an overly dramatic sigh. Latte has no real reason, except for maybe propriety’s sake, but no she knows she won’t let him in purely out of spite, because yeah, she’s petty like that. She didn't spend the months fearing his swift and honestly way too eager hand of death, just to hand everything over when she realizes for some incomprehensible reason they’ve managed to fall in love. he slouches even further in his seat, one boot clad leg hanging off the edge, and his collared shirt unbuttoned. Arwin’s entire visage reminds her of a leopard bathing in the sun.  He's so irritatingly handsome, so mind-numbingly beautiful, with hair pearlescent and eyes the colors of rubies (she knows the color is probably closer to the blood he spills regularly but comparing them to gemstones makes her feel like a better lover) that she can't believe she even fell for him. She wasn’t even supposed to be attracted to otherworldly beings, so much more stunning than the average person could ever hope for, at least he had a rotten personality as if to make up for stealing the majority of the world’s beauty at birth. He cocks his head, turning towards her to meet her amber eyes, before his smirk turns into something a little softer for the rest of their late night exchange that undoubtedly end with her falling asleep not even halfway through a sentence and him carrying her to bed and vanishing with lingering breath of a kiss. 

After he leaves, Arwin ponders that beautiful as she is in a ball gown, Latte’s stunning in dishabille.