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.