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marigoldbaker · 4 months ago

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[ DANCE ] for Khalid and Jaheira

[ DANCE ]: while the sender and receiver are slow dancing together, their close proximity and the intimacy of the situation causes feelings to rise to the surface.

No one dances with Jaheira for the love songs.

This is not the right place to begin. Here is where we start: it has been two months of a long and complicated mission, multiple Harpers undercover, the sort of thing where you are working shoulder-to-shoulder and simply can't help but make friends with those around you. Khalid was sent on the mission because he is still new to the organization and needs supervision, and perhaps also because the Harpers understand the value of encouraging close proximity with your compatriots, encouraging bonds to grow, ensuring that these are people who will work to protect you and people who you will work to protect.

No one is exactly sure why Jaheira is here. Most of the Harpers have been here at least a few years longer than Khalid, but Jaheira has been here much longer, the longest of all of them, and unlike all the rest in the group, seems fundamentally disinterested in fraternization. The closest she comes to socializing is a flicker of eyes towards Khalid when he speaks, and every time, he feels as though he's pinned to the floor beneath her--but such is the way Jaheira's gaze must make everyone feel, ferocious as she is, else words would not stutter and stumble off of more than just Khalid's tongue when she joins the group for a drink after a day of information-gathering.

There is a sense of relief whenever the band starts playing and the Harpers get up to dance. Partners are easy to find for the faster songs--they're the sort of whirling, trading-places dances where you don't need a partner, you only need to know the steps--and for the slower waltzes, the Harpers pair up completely at random, laughing with the absurdity, competing with each other to look the most ridiculous and romantic.

Khalid likes these games. It's a nice way to end the day--twirling around with one of his friends, unburdened by deeper feeling. Jaheira's presence, however, always sends a shiver down his spine whenever the waltz begins, and he absolutely cannot look at her, always letting himself be swept away by one of his more boisterous companions rather than risk facing the harsh reality of her disinterest. If he does not look at her, he will not have to dance with her. If he dances with her, it will be feigned and ridiculous and nothing close to what he wants.

So: he averts his eyes for two months, to the point where not looking becomes second nature, until he is dancing with Harper Riordan, who says with a laugh, "Gods, is she still here?"

And Khalid does look, then. And then can't stop looking.

Clearly, she wasn't expecting him to look. Clearly, she's gotten used to him not looking, because he knows Jaheira very well by now, and not once in the last two months has he seen an expression like that on her face. She's at the very back of the room, leaning against the wall, bottle in hand, eyes full of what he can only describe as lovelorn melancholy as she looks directly at him. It takes her a moment to realize that he is looking back, and another moment to hastily look away, taking a long swig from the bottle as if attempting to prove to him that it's only the drink making her look so forlorn.

Harper Riordan, voice blurring, says, "Don't know why she comes if all she does is stand and stare. Judging us, I'd wager. Have you ever seen her dance?"

Khalid shrugs off the arm on his shoulders, not harshly, just knowing that there's somewhere else he needs to be. He weaves through the crowd and takes Jaheira's hands. She colors in a way that seems to have absolutely nothing to do with the alcohol.

"Ja--Jaheira," gods take him, the stutter always surfaces when he least wants it to, "w--would--would--would you--"

He waits for her to finish his sentence with brisk impatience, as so many do. He finds himself stunned and fluttery when her blush deepens and she smiles, all wobbly, squeezing his hands, but doesn't interrupt or interject. She takes a soft, steadying breath in, and he follows suit, and suddenly he feels as though this might be easy.

"Would--would--would, would you--you--" He's stuck on the most important part, but her expression remains just as warm and welcoming, which has never happened to him before.

Her fingers lace with his. His heartbeat pounds in even tempo with a gentle waltz. He has never felt calm in a moment like this, and it's with a dancer's grace that his words pivot.

"Dance," he manages. "Me?"

Jaheira nods so quickly that her hair threatens to tumble out of its half-done braid. She's holding onto him like she does when she's injured and he's helping her off the battlefield, which feels absurd. What has she to be afraid of in this moment? Doesn't she know who she is?

Their colleagues have faded into a dim, distant nothing as he leads her out onto the dance floor. The music is ever so soft. Her body folds into his like it's found a home.

#fic #jaheira x khalid #jaheira #khalid bg1 #i got. so feelings. god

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blackjackkent · 24 days ago

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Incredibly self-indulgent and questionably canonical drabble time! Set not long before Rasaad's admittance to the Sun Soul monastery.

(This was gonna be short but it got out of hand as usual whoops. XD )

-----

Rasaad: "You are familiar with Calimport then?" Khalid: "Oh y-yes! I spent many a h-happy hour at the Jet Jambiya. Wonderful ale." Rasaad: "I remember it well. My brother and I would often linger outside the better taverns, looking for inebriated patrons to, ah, relieve of their valuables." Khalid: "I can't say it didn't happen to me from t-time to time. Perhaps you picked my pocket!" Rasaad: "Oh. Yes. Forgive me, my friend. I feel great shame for much of what I did before finding Selune." Khalid: "I'm sorry, Rasaad. Making you uncomfortable was the l-last thing I wanted. Please, think nothing of it." Rasaad: "I shall try to do so. I suppose I have not entirely put those days behind me. Even now they find a way to disrupt my serenity." - Baldur's Gate: Siege of Dragonspear

The air of the khanduq market is hazy with late afternoon heat. Rasaad, at seven years old, is by now hardened to Calimport's desert landscape; he knows the heat will pass, but more than that, he knows how to operate within it, keeping to shadows in between his 'fishing' expeditions with Gamaz.

His older brother is the better thief of the two of them. Rasaad is quick and clever but a poor liar, and not as practiced at spotting a good mark in the ever-shifting city crowds. Today, though, Gamaz is busy fishing in the inner market, so Rasaad is left to his own devices, drifting aimlessly among the taverns that surround the khanduq like a blanket.

The taverns are rather hit-or-miss when it comes to pickpocketing. Most of the time, the bar patrons of this district have only as much coin as will buy them a night's ale. Gamaz has little compunction in stealing even from those just as destitute, but even at his young age Rasaad finds it disquieting in some way he doesn't yet have the words to define.

But every now and then, the drudach plays host to someone more important, some visitor from the rich districts come to sample the stronger (and cheaper) ale of the markets. And today, Rasaad spots one such - a merchant by his clothes, trotting on horseback down the street with his family behind him.

The man is tall, good-looking but with his looks offset by a haughty sneer that twists his mouth up at one corner. His wife, dressed the same gaudy and gold-embroidered style, bears a matching expression, as do his two young sons, each astride their own pony and marching in lockstep behind him. Behind them is a younger boy about Rasaad's age, equally well-dressed but not on horseback, trudging along wearily behind.

A good mark, Rasaad thinks. His little face twists in concentrated thought as he tries to consider what Gamaz (two years older and much wiser in the ways of thievery) would think. The two younger men are the best target; each carries a fat purse on his belt and neither seems to have much of an attentive eye, as they are both arguing with each other as their ponies trot along the street.

He watches as they dismount at a tavern door, all swinging from their horses with practiced grace and making an ostentatious show of sweeping the dust from their fine clothes. Each of them hands the reins to the boy that was following behind, leaving him with the four creatures to manage as they disappear into the tavern's dark and noisy interior.

Good, Rasaad thinks. They will get drunk, and perhaps their sons too, and the gold and silver and copper fish in their pockets will jump to the hook. In the meantime, he examines the boy with the horses, who is awkwardly fumbling with the various sets of reins to tie them all off to the hitching posts. A servant, presumably - and a rather nervous one too, as he jumps when Rasaad approaches.

"I can hold them for you," Rasaad says gravely. It is strategic, of course; if he can fall into talk with the servant boy, it will be easier to get close to his rich patrons when they come wobbling back out of the bar. It has, of course, nothing to do with the fact that the boy looks a little overwhelmed trying to hold all four creatures in place long enough to tie them off.

The boy flinches, squinting at Rasaad warily. "Y-you will not steal them?" he stammers doubtfully. "F-father says there's n-nothing but thieves up this d-district..."

Rasaad is not a very good liar, but luckily at this moment he can tell the truth. "I won't steal the horses," he says honestly, and holds his hand out. The boy relaxes, and then grins, placing two of the sets of reins into Rasaad's palm.

"Th-thank you," he mumbles. His voice is high and earnest, touched with a stammer that thickens the occasional syllable. "I'll have it all d-done in a moment. I'm b-better with the horses than Ayaan and Jamari."

Rasaad, who has never had occasion to ride a horse ever in his life, finds that they are rather stronger than he expected; one of them tosses its head and nearly yanks him sideways off his feet. But he sets his legs hard and holds on, not wanting to look like a fool in front of the other boy. "Who're they?" he asks, trying to sound nonchalant.

"My b-brothers," the boy explains. He jerks his head towards the tavern, and Rasaad blinks.

"Why en't you in there with them?" he asks, perplexed enough to break his thin veneer of disinterest. "That was your father?"

"My b-brothers are their mother's sons," the boy says glumly. "I am not. So they care little for me, and I walk b-behind, and wait here." Then he brightens a little. "B-but the horses are nicer than b-brothers, anyhow. They don't kick me."

Rasaad frowns. His memories of his own father are muddled, and all too dominated by the smear of red with which he ended. But he knows about brothers; he has Gamaz, and would not trade him for anything, as it is the two of them against all the hard world of the Calimport streets. It is hard to imagine a life with brothers where that bond is not everpresent and unspoken.

"Your brothers kick you? You should kick them back," he says matter-of-factly, hopping up on a nearby crate, his dark eyes suddenly smoldering with mild indignation on behalf of this stranger. He doesn't usually like the rich boys he's encountered, but this one doesn't make a show of it. He seems quiet - kind, even, judging by the way he's petting each horse's nose as he Rasaad wonders if he sees much of his father's coin. "Or I could kick them for you."

The boy looks alarmed. "N-no! They would have the amlakkar on you," he says, shaking his head. "It's-- it's all right. J-just the way of things." Then he smiles, just a little, leaning against the tavern wall. "But th-thank you," he adds with a sheepish chuckle.

Rasaad grunts, folding his arms across his chest. "Why did you come around here?" he asked.

"F-father has a new business deal," the boy explains. "We-- they-- are celebrating." He frowns, not quite meeting Rasaad's eyes. "He likes t-to come this way when he wants to feel important," he adds in a low voice.

Rasaad scowls. Yes, he knows many merchants from the rich districts like this; they come to the less ostentatious corners of the city just to enjoy the way all eyes turn to them when they walk through. They make good marks, usually - but that doesn't make Rasaad like them. "Think a lot of themselves, do they?"

The boy blinks, then glances furtively over his shoulder to check that no one is listening. Then he grins a little, and nods, and hops up on the crate next to Rasaad. Rasaad grins back; he's starting to get an idea.

They've been sitting half an hour or so in cautious conversation when they're interrupted abruptly by a shout from inside the door.

"Khalid!" The boy jumps at the word - his name, evidently - and then scrambles to his feet hastily as the two brothers come staggering back out of the bar. They smell not of ale but of expensive Moonshae whiskey, which they have evidently downed with significant rapidity.

One of them claps a hand none-too-kindly on Khalid's shoulder. "Ready th' horses again," he slurs. "Th' proprietor here was not - properly - respectful, so we'll not be stayin'--" he breaks off, squints at Rasaad. "What're you looking at, boy?" he snaps abruptly.

Rasaad slides slowly off the crate, peering up at the young man and not bothering to conceal his dislike. With exaggerated politeness, he bows, backpedaling a few steps. "Nothing, saer," he says. "I was admiring your garments. If you'd step this way, I should like to see them a little better in the sunlight..."

He trails off, takes a few steps back out into the street, and his eyes narrow in sudden focus as he gathers up everything Gamaz ever taught him to the front of his mind. The two rich young men - too drunk to question the idea that someone might wish to admire them - follow him agreeably towards the shaft of sunlight painting the thoroughfare... and he strikes.

It is, perhaps, one of the deftest bits of fishing he has ever managed, and he is only sorry Gamaz isn't here to see it. He manages to make it look entirely accidental, but shifts his body as he comes off the curb as if he has tripped, and strikes his full weight into one of the boys. At the same time, he lets his opposite leg catch the other boy at the back of the knee. The dual impacts send both boys sprawling out into the street, a cloud of dust rising up around them, and as they fall, his fingers flick across their belts, lifting both heavy purses from beneath their tunics and into the wide hidden pocket in his own.

"You impudent little cur!" The older of the young men comes up off the street, and Rasaad is pleased to see that a measure of horse dung is liberally mixed with the dirt now painting the front of his finery.

"Clumsy fool!" snaps the other, who has climbed to his knees and is wiping fruitlessly at a damp bit of mud that has smeared across his face.

Rasaad lets his dark eyes go very wide, and backpedals a few steps away, holding his arms out to the side in a placating gesture. "I'm so sorry, saers. So sorry!"

"Get out of here right now, if you know what's good for you!" snaps the eldest, raising a hand. Rasaad darts backwards with practiced ease to avoid the blow, and looks past the two disheveled men to the young boy still standing by the horses. Khalid, out of his brothers' line of sight, has a wide, delighted grin on his face, his eyebrows lifted to his hairline.

Rasaad grins back, then turns and bolts, disappearing into the crowd and down a nearby alley into the shadows.

-----

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