Zahra gave a furious huff as she planted her foot on the shoulder of the straw dummy, kicking off to extract her rapier from center mass. Sheâd been nearly throwing the bloody thing around to temper her rattled nerves. Sweat trickled down her spine, dripped off her chin and made her eyes sting. Shooting arrows hadnât been enough. Her father. The damned, infuriating man. When had he become so bitter? She might as well have left him to rot in Pressa. Left him to Farajiâs lackeys. They wouldâve set him on fire. Thrown him to the sea. Let him starve in a cell. Bloody good that did to his sensibilities. Gratitudeâpah! Miles away.
Arrows were sticking out the ground surrounding the dummy like porcupine needles; others were pinned into its red painted face, in varying angles. Sheâd long abandoned pulling them out. Her bow and near-empty quiver had been set to the side, leaned up against another dummy. A bottle of amber-colored liquid was nestled between them. A good portion of it gone, as well. She hadnât been planning to train today. No, sheâd wanted to introduce her father to some of her friends. Heâd refused to come out of his room. Refused her invitation with the slam of the door. In her face.
She wrinkled her nose and plunged the blade into the ground in front of her, watching as it wobbled. It swayed with the slight breeze that swept down into the training grounds. Cooling the sweat from her face. A beautiful day. One she might have enjoyed if she werenât so annoyed. She had stripped down to a loose white tunic, though it stuck uncomfortably to her back. Her trousers had been rolled up just below her knees, and her sleeves to her elbows: out of the way. Bare-foot once more, toes curling into the grass and dirt. It made her feel calmer. Grounded. In control.
Even if she felt the furthest thing from it. Having him here made her feel small. Guilty. Like a child. She couldnât remember the last time sheâd felt like that, or allowed herself to feel like that. Conversations with him were strained. One-sided. Intentionally so, she assumed. Whatever barriers existed between them had been drawn solely on his end. He had no interest in pursuing any sort of relationship with her. Not from what she could see. It was fair, wasnât it? He worried after her brothers and sisters; and his wife. The ones whoâd stayed behind as a family. So, why did it grate on her nerves so much?
âI do hope it's not me you were imagining when you shot at that unfortunate straw fellow. I do rather like my face." Behind her, Cyrus hopped the fence, something tucked under one arm. He surveyed the damage with some interest, noting the arrows that had stuck in the ground as well as those embedded in the dummy itself. The holes from her repeated stabbings seemed to be of particular note as far as he was concerned. âAnd my organs."
He offered her half a smile, askew on his face like it wasn't supposed to be there. From beneath his elbow, he extracted the bundle and handed it to her. âI have it on goodâor at least confidentâauthority that food is panacea to most kinds of trouble. So I brought you some. I can cook, believe it or not." He seemed to expect that this would come as a surprise. That made sense though; most blue-blooded types never learned to do that kind of thing. It was servants' work, to them. âI hope you like sweets, because it's baklava."
âI assure you, your face is far too handsome to mutilate,â Zahra scoffed and wriggled her toes through an errant weed. Milk thistles and dandelions, too stubborn and unruly to know that they shouldnât grow there. Like her, in a way. She flicked her finger against the pommel of her blade, and watched it wobble once more, âOh no, I was imagining anyone ungrateful enough spit at our feet when we chose to save them⊠yâknow, from a certain and gruesome death. Iâll admit, it doesnât happen often. But when it doesââ She puffed a sigh between her lips and sagged her shoulders, raking a hand across her face.
She peeked between her fingers at him. Though sheâd been happy enough to stew in her anger, she found herself not minding the company.
Her hand dropped away from her face, gaze dragging from the haphazard smile on his lips to the bundle tucked beneath his arm. Curiosity tickled at her. Smothered the flame of anger sheâd been trying to put out moments before: alone. As if hailing his conclusion, her stomach gave an indignant rumble. Her expression froze for the barest moment before it relaxed into a smile, before it finally crackled into a grin. âVery surprised,â she pursed her lips, and flopped down on the ground, âBut pleasantly so.â
The grass and dirt was soft enough here to be comfortable, trodden on as it was. Sheâd chosen some of the furthest training dummies to pummel, set up beneath a couple of large elm trees so they were somewhat shielded by the sun. A decent enough place to eat whatever a baklava was. She patted the ground beside her and arched an eyebrow, inviting him to join her if he wanted to.
Cyrus sat without protest, folding his legs under him and setting the bundle down in his lap to unwrap it. It seemed to be some kind of light brown, sticky pastry from what she could see. âIt's a northern dessert from Tevinter." He seemed to have expected that she wouldn't be familiar. Or maybe explaining was just his way of making conversationâhe certainly seemed to be called upon to do it often enough. âIt's layers of this thin dough with hazelnut and honey between, and a little sugar."
He picked up one of the wedges, about the size of his first two fingers together, and passed the rest over to her, biting into the confection with care. A few bits of the crust still flaked away and fell onto his breeches, but he brushed them off with a hand, unconcerned. After swallowing, he spoke, keeping his eyes on the food. âUngrateful for a rescue? Sounds familiar. The old man's not taking things too well, then?" His tone conveyed no surprise.
Overhead, a hawk squawked, and to their sides, blunt swords clanged together. Errant soldiers balked at each other, shoving shoulders and swinging blades in the nearby ring used for sparring. A scuffle, a thump of a back hitting dirt. Normal sounds for a place like Skyhold. Ones sheâd come to find comfort in. How strange. Zahra crossed her foot over her ankle, and leaned back against her elbows as Cyrus settled down beside her. She smiled impishly and tipped her head up at him, âYouâd make a fine husband yet with that cooking prowess. Prospective wives must be beating at your door.â Another grin cracked across her lips, with a laugh that meant no harm, âIâm woefully lacking in that department.â
âAre you? I was under a different impression." He didn't elaborate, though, just letting the words sit comfortably there without explanation.
The imaginary was enough to lighten her mood. Cyrus baking in the kitchen. Hunkered over the ovens. Sheâd only ever wandered in there to pilfer pies and cookies probably meant for someone else. Delicious morsels, dragged back to her den as if she were a magpie. The notion wasnât far off. She hadnât been caught yet. Or else, the cook had taken pity on her and allowed her to plunder her sweets whenever she wanted. She accepted the bundle and settled it into her lap, leaving it unfolded. She took her own wedge, and bit into it with far less care than he had. Messy eater she was; an honest one, though. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and finished swallowing before opening her mouth to speak, âNow, this. This is good.â
Heâd have to teach her. Or keep making more.
âYouâd think he wanted to be left to the wolves the way he goes on about it,â she snorted and gestured wildly with her hand. Crust dropped onto the ground around her. She took another bite, tentative. Slow. Mulling the conversations theyâd had recently. Sheâd spoken her thoughts aloud before, mostly to Cyrus. He would understand. âMaybe we should have. Left him alone, like he wanted.â It wasnât a kind thought, but it was honest.
He wasn't the sort who'd scold her for itâthat much was long obvious. He had far too many flaws and unkindnesses of his own. And perhaps a bit more self-awareness of them than he'd once possessed. âMaybe." He seemed to doubt it, from the note of skepticism his voice carried. âBut I don't think you'd have been any more satisfied with that outcome than this one. And you might have always wondered how things would have been otherwise. Here there's no need for speculation. He would have been dead, or enslaved, or something similarly-nasty, and you stopped it from happening."
Cyrus lifted his shoulders, finishing off his wedge of the dessert and swiping the pad of his thumb over his tongue to remove some of the sticky residue. His manners were better than hers, but they definitely weren't table-perfect. At least not right now. He leaned slightly, putting his back in contact with the trunk of one of the young trees and pulling his knees up at a slight angle. His arms draped naturally across his abdomen, loose and relaxed. Or as much so as he ever got. He looked like he was thinking hard about something, but it only lasted a few moments.
âI think if you do something right for the thanks, it's probably not all that worthy anyway. Not that I'm an expert in doing the right thing, mind you. It's just a suspicion I have."
Zahra had never considered herself a good personâand she thought maybe Cyrus might understand that best of all. Of course, she didnât think he was bad or unkind. Quite the opposite. But in a swell of selfless, moralistic individuals filling the Inquisition, she floundered trying to do what was right. What they might consider right. Goodness made no sense to her. Not in the conventional sense. Raiders, pirates and even the dirtier shade of mercenary companies flew darker sails. Their compasses did not strike kindly notions. She doubted she would have done much of anything if she hadnât joined the Inquisition and surrounded herself with them: the Irregulars. Her friends.
She tipped her head up at him and pursed her lips. Maybe. It sounded nice, the way he said it. He didnât quite believe it and neither did she, if she was being honest. It was nigh impossible to try and dip back into what she might have done on colder days, when all she cared about was the lick of salt on her skin and the feeling of a coin purse pressed into her palms. Her crew, her lavish lifestyle. Nothing less. She had changed. Slowly. As an insect might, unfurling from a cocoon. Unexpected. Though, not entirely unpleasant. Would she have wondered after him? Or forgotten him along with the rest of her family? She wasnât sure, though an undeniable truth rang out in Cyrusâs words.
She might have. He certainly thought so.
Zahra stuffed the remaining wedge in her mouth and chewed around his words, eyes shuttering closed. Sweet. It had worked to loosen the nerves bunched in her jawline, where sheâd been grinding her molars as she paced in front of the dummy. She swallowed and opened her eyes once more, turning her fingers over to lick the honey off. There was silence that followed his words, comfortable. A moment to mull, before a snorting laugh rattled from her. She rolled her attention back towards him, leaning most of her weight on her forearm. âA suspicion?â Her laughter died down into a wobbly smile, âI do think youâre right though.â
âMaybe I just donât know how to be a daughter anymore. Wasnât much good at that either, Iâm afraid.â
He shrugged almost lazily. âSounds like they weren't great at being parents." They had attempted to force her into the marriage that had ultimately pushed her away from home, something he'd expressed nothing but distaste for. âYou're good at being plenty of other things, in any case. And I'd say trying to fix problems you did not cause qualifies as above and beyond basic 'daughter' requirements."
A smile tugged at the corner of Zahraâs lips: wistful. He was right. They hadnât been great parents by any conventional means. She wasnât sure what it meant to be a good one, but figured after watching Marcy, it was a lot closer to how she was with Pierre. It was nice, seeing them together. Had she been lucky enough to have the same sort of upbringing, she supposed her life would have ended up much differently. She wondered, often. How different all of their lives would have been if theyâd been loved properly, by the ones who were supposed to. Where would Cyrus and Stel have ended up?
Somewhere else, most likely. Would that have been better? She wasnât sure. Life sometimes dealt dirty hands that ultimately led them to the circumstances they were in presently. Perhaps sheâd never have known the rigors of the sea; the slap of the tide on the bow of her ship, or how good it felt to sway at the mantle. If sheâd learned anything over the years, it was that hardships molded stronger people. Made them harder, quicker. More compassionate, in some cases. Sheâd seen it over and over again in the Inquisition. She chuckled low and stretched out her legs, âIâll take that compliment.â
Adjusting himself, he un-bent one of his knees, laying the leg flat on the ground and tilting his head back against the tree bark. He wasn't a natural fit with an outdoors scene, to be sureâhe looked very displaced with his stark coloration. Black and white and a blue very different from sky or sea. The soft browns and greens and greys of the bailey were at odds with him. Or he with them. If he noticed that, it didn't seem to bother him any.
âI never used to worry, you know. About whether I was doing the right thing. About whether I was a good... just a good person, I suppose. I always figured I'd be rational, and skilled, and how 'moral' I was didn't matter much. The closest I ever really got was wanting to be a good brother, and knowing that I wasn't." His tone was quite factual, devoid of any any anguished undercurrent, but it was unclear if that was a genuine lack or merely a very careful omission. âNow... sometimes it's all I think about. Was that answer too insensitive? Something I did too coldhearted? What would Stellulam or the others have done or said? It's maddening. And still I can never tell if I'm doing it right." He grimaced.
âWhatever it might be worth, I think you're doing a sight better than that."
Regarding Cyrus with another unabashed, leveled stare, Zahra pursed her lips and turned over so that she was laying on her back; hands coming to twine behind her head. A strange sight, the two of them. He, who contrasted so much against his environment and her, a woman destined to face the billow of sails and the spray of the ocean. As odd as they appeared, she doubted that either of them would have it any other way.
That Cyrus would harbor such thoughts hadnât surprised her. How she saw him differed from how he saw himself. That was much was clear. Even so, it was refreshing to hear that she was not alone in having themâstruggling to be better than she was, and wondering if she was doing it properly had never occurred to her before. These worries were new. Unfamiliar. Strange. She took a deep breath, and exhaled softly through her nose. Her smile warbled as she turned to look at him once more, âThank you.â A pause, before she swung her gaze towards the leaves hanging overhead. âThough I do think youâre selling yourself short. Maybe weâre both doing better than we think.â
âBesides, Iâd much prefer you do and say things the Cyrus way. Maddening as it may be.â
He snorted, a skeptical sound, but he did not try to refute her. âWell, there you go then. If that's what you think of me, you can hardly think worse for yourself. You've done things your way, and that was the way you can live with. Doesn't seem to be much point in second-guessing it. Only way to go is forward. Stellulam says something like that, sometimes."
Zahraâs mouth quirked up once more, as she turned back onto her forearm, âStel is a wise one.â An optimistic way of looking at things. She hummed low in her throat and made a sound that was somewhere between a snort and a chuckle, âThat doesnât mean I donât want to strangle the man whenever I see him.â At the very least, he didnât come out of his chamber enough to pester her with those lukewarm, judging stares, bellying all the disappointment he mustâve felt laying eyes on her. He didnât come up to the Heraldâs Rest either, so she was quite safe there.
âThis did help, though. Promise to bring me sweets whenever Iâm too furious to face the day?â
He scoffed softly, but then placed a hand over his heart, smiling with mock gallantry. âI promise."
Arrows were sticking out the ground surrounding the dummy like porcupine needles; others were pinned into its red painted face, in varying angles. Sheâd long abandoned pulling them out. Her bow and near-empty quiver had been set to the side, leaned up against another dummy. A bottle of amber-colored liquid was nestled between them. A good portion of it gone, as well. She hadnât been planning to train today. No, sheâd wanted to introduce her father to some of her friends. Heâd refused to come out of his room. Refused her invitation with the slam of the door. In her face.
She wrinkled her nose and plunged the blade into the ground in front of her, watching as it wobbled. It swayed with the slight breeze that swept down into the training grounds. Cooling the sweat from her face. A beautiful day. One she might have enjoyed if she werenât so annoyed. She had stripped down to a loose white tunic, though it stuck uncomfortably to her back. Her trousers had been rolled up just below her knees, and her sleeves to her elbows: out of the way. Bare-foot once more, toes curling into the grass and dirt. It made her feel calmer. Grounded. In control.
Even if she felt the furthest thing from it. Having him here made her feel small. Guilty. Like a child. She couldnât remember the last time sheâd felt like that, or allowed herself to feel like that. Conversations with him were strained. One-sided. Intentionally so, she assumed. Whatever barriers existed between them had been drawn solely on his end. He had no interest in pursuing any sort of relationship with her. Not from what she could see. It was fair, wasnât it? He worried after her brothers and sisters; and his wife. The ones whoâd stayed behind as a family. So, why did it grate on her nerves so much?
âI do hope it's not me you were imagining when you shot at that unfortunate straw fellow. I do rather like my face." Behind her, Cyrus hopped the fence, something tucked under one arm. He surveyed the damage with some interest, noting the arrows that had stuck in the ground as well as those embedded in the dummy itself. The holes from her repeated stabbings seemed to be of particular note as far as he was concerned. âAnd my organs."
He offered her half a smile, askew on his face like it wasn't supposed to be there. From beneath his elbow, he extracted the bundle and handed it to her. âI have it on goodâor at least confidentâauthority that food is panacea to most kinds of trouble. So I brought you some. I can cook, believe it or not." He seemed to expect that this would come as a surprise. That made sense though; most blue-blooded types never learned to do that kind of thing. It was servants' work, to them. âI hope you like sweets, because it's baklava."
âI assure you, your face is far too handsome to mutilate,â Zahra scoffed and wriggled her toes through an errant weed. Milk thistles and dandelions, too stubborn and unruly to know that they shouldnât grow there. Like her, in a way. She flicked her finger against the pommel of her blade, and watched it wobble once more, âOh no, I was imagining anyone ungrateful enough spit at our feet when we chose to save them⊠yâknow, from a certain and gruesome death. Iâll admit, it doesnât happen often. But when it doesââ She puffed a sigh between her lips and sagged her shoulders, raking a hand across her face.
She peeked between her fingers at him. Though sheâd been happy enough to stew in her anger, she found herself not minding the company.
Her hand dropped away from her face, gaze dragging from the haphazard smile on his lips to the bundle tucked beneath his arm. Curiosity tickled at her. Smothered the flame of anger sheâd been trying to put out moments before: alone. As if hailing his conclusion, her stomach gave an indignant rumble. Her expression froze for the barest moment before it relaxed into a smile, before it finally crackled into a grin. âVery surprised,â she pursed her lips, and flopped down on the ground, âBut pleasantly so.â
The grass and dirt was soft enough here to be comfortable, trodden on as it was. Sheâd chosen some of the furthest training dummies to pummel, set up beneath a couple of large elm trees so they were somewhat shielded by the sun. A decent enough place to eat whatever a baklava was. She patted the ground beside her and arched an eyebrow, inviting him to join her if he wanted to.
Cyrus sat without protest, folding his legs under him and setting the bundle down in his lap to unwrap it. It seemed to be some kind of light brown, sticky pastry from what she could see. âIt's a northern dessert from Tevinter." He seemed to have expected that she wouldn't be familiar. Or maybe explaining was just his way of making conversationâhe certainly seemed to be called upon to do it often enough. âIt's layers of this thin dough with hazelnut and honey between, and a little sugar."
He picked up one of the wedges, about the size of his first two fingers together, and passed the rest over to her, biting into the confection with care. A few bits of the crust still flaked away and fell onto his breeches, but he brushed them off with a hand, unconcerned. After swallowing, he spoke, keeping his eyes on the food. âUngrateful for a rescue? Sounds familiar. The old man's not taking things too well, then?" His tone conveyed no surprise.
Overhead, a hawk squawked, and to their sides, blunt swords clanged together. Errant soldiers balked at each other, shoving shoulders and swinging blades in the nearby ring used for sparring. A scuffle, a thump of a back hitting dirt. Normal sounds for a place like Skyhold. Ones sheâd come to find comfort in. How strange. Zahra crossed her foot over her ankle, and leaned back against her elbows as Cyrus settled down beside her. She smiled impishly and tipped her head up at him, âYouâd make a fine husband yet with that cooking prowess. Prospective wives must be beating at your door.â Another grin cracked across her lips, with a laugh that meant no harm, âIâm woefully lacking in that department.â
âAre you? I was under a different impression." He didn't elaborate, though, just letting the words sit comfortably there without explanation.
The imaginary was enough to lighten her mood. Cyrus baking in the kitchen. Hunkered over the ovens. Sheâd only ever wandered in there to pilfer pies and cookies probably meant for someone else. Delicious morsels, dragged back to her den as if she were a magpie. The notion wasnât far off. She hadnât been caught yet. Or else, the cook had taken pity on her and allowed her to plunder her sweets whenever she wanted. She accepted the bundle and settled it into her lap, leaving it unfolded. She took her own wedge, and bit into it with far less care than he had. Messy eater she was; an honest one, though. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and finished swallowing before opening her mouth to speak, âNow, this. This is good.â
Heâd have to teach her. Or keep making more.
âYouâd think he wanted to be left to the wolves the way he goes on about it,â she snorted and gestured wildly with her hand. Crust dropped onto the ground around her. She took another bite, tentative. Slow. Mulling the conversations theyâd had recently. Sheâd spoken her thoughts aloud before, mostly to Cyrus. He would understand. âMaybe we should have. Left him alone, like he wanted.â It wasnât a kind thought, but it was honest.
He wasn't the sort who'd scold her for itâthat much was long obvious. He had far too many flaws and unkindnesses of his own. And perhaps a bit more self-awareness of them than he'd once possessed. âMaybe." He seemed to doubt it, from the note of skepticism his voice carried. âBut I don't think you'd have been any more satisfied with that outcome than this one. And you might have always wondered how things would have been otherwise. Here there's no need for speculation. He would have been dead, or enslaved, or something similarly-nasty, and you stopped it from happening."
Cyrus lifted his shoulders, finishing off his wedge of the dessert and swiping the pad of his thumb over his tongue to remove some of the sticky residue. His manners were better than hers, but they definitely weren't table-perfect. At least not right now. He leaned slightly, putting his back in contact with the trunk of one of the young trees and pulling his knees up at a slight angle. His arms draped naturally across his abdomen, loose and relaxed. Or as much so as he ever got. He looked like he was thinking hard about something, but it only lasted a few moments.
âI think if you do something right for the thanks, it's probably not all that worthy anyway. Not that I'm an expert in doing the right thing, mind you. It's just a suspicion I have."
Zahra had never considered herself a good personâand she thought maybe Cyrus might understand that best of all. Of course, she didnât think he was bad or unkind. Quite the opposite. But in a swell of selfless, moralistic individuals filling the Inquisition, she floundered trying to do what was right. What they might consider right. Goodness made no sense to her. Not in the conventional sense. Raiders, pirates and even the dirtier shade of mercenary companies flew darker sails. Their compasses did not strike kindly notions. She doubted she would have done much of anything if she hadnât joined the Inquisition and surrounded herself with them: the Irregulars. Her friends.
She tipped her head up at him and pursed her lips. Maybe. It sounded nice, the way he said it. He didnât quite believe it and neither did she, if she was being honest. It was nigh impossible to try and dip back into what she might have done on colder days, when all she cared about was the lick of salt on her skin and the feeling of a coin purse pressed into her palms. Her crew, her lavish lifestyle. Nothing less. She had changed. Slowly. As an insect might, unfurling from a cocoon. Unexpected. Though, not entirely unpleasant. Would she have wondered after him? Or forgotten him along with the rest of her family? She wasnât sure, though an undeniable truth rang out in Cyrusâs words.
She might have. He certainly thought so.
Zahra stuffed the remaining wedge in her mouth and chewed around his words, eyes shuttering closed. Sweet. It had worked to loosen the nerves bunched in her jawline, where sheâd been grinding her molars as she paced in front of the dummy. She swallowed and opened her eyes once more, turning her fingers over to lick the honey off. There was silence that followed his words, comfortable. A moment to mull, before a snorting laugh rattled from her. She rolled her attention back towards him, leaning most of her weight on her forearm. âA suspicion?â Her laughter died down into a wobbly smile, âI do think youâre right though.â
âMaybe I just donât know how to be a daughter anymore. Wasnât much good at that either, Iâm afraid.â
He shrugged almost lazily. âSounds like they weren't great at being parents." They had attempted to force her into the marriage that had ultimately pushed her away from home, something he'd expressed nothing but distaste for. âYou're good at being plenty of other things, in any case. And I'd say trying to fix problems you did not cause qualifies as above and beyond basic 'daughter' requirements."
A smile tugged at the corner of Zahraâs lips: wistful. He was right. They hadnât been great parents by any conventional means. She wasnât sure what it meant to be a good one, but figured after watching Marcy, it was a lot closer to how she was with Pierre. It was nice, seeing them together. Had she been lucky enough to have the same sort of upbringing, she supposed her life would have ended up much differently. She wondered, often. How different all of their lives would have been if theyâd been loved properly, by the ones who were supposed to. Where would Cyrus and Stel have ended up?
Somewhere else, most likely. Would that have been better? She wasnât sure. Life sometimes dealt dirty hands that ultimately led them to the circumstances they were in presently. Perhaps sheâd never have known the rigors of the sea; the slap of the tide on the bow of her ship, or how good it felt to sway at the mantle. If sheâd learned anything over the years, it was that hardships molded stronger people. Made them harder, quicker. More compassionate, in some cases. Sheâd seen it over and over again in the Inquisition. She chuckled low and stretched out her legs, âIâll take that compliment.â
Adjusting himself, he un-bent one of his knees, laying the leg flat on the ground and tilting his head back against the tree bark. He wasn't a natural fit with an outdoors scene, to be sureâhe looked very displaced with his stark coloration. Black and white and a blue very different from sky or sea. The soft browns and greens and greys of the bailey were at odds with him. Or he with them. If he noticed that, it didn't seem to bother him any.
âI never used to worry, you know. About whether I was doing the right thing. About whether I was a good... just a good person, I suppose. I always figured I'd be rational, and skilled, and how 'moral' I was didn't matter much. The closest I ever really got was wanting to be a good brother, and knowing that I wasn't." His tone was quite factual, devoid of any any anguished undercurrent, but it was unclear if that was a genuine lack or merely a very careful omission. âNow... sometimes it's all I think about. Was that answer too insensitive? Something I did too coldhearted? What would Stellulam or the others have done or said? It's maddening. And still I can never tell if I'm doing it right." He grimaced.
âWhatever it might be worth, I think you're doing a sight better than that."
Regarding Cyrus with another unabashed, leveled stare, Zahra pursed her lips and turned over so that she was laying on her back; hands coming to twine behind her head. A strange sight, the two of them. He, who contrasted so much against his environment and her, a woman destined to face the billow of sails and the spray of the ocean. As odd as they appeared, she doubted that either of them would have it any other way.
That Cyrus would harbor such thoughts hadnât surprised her. How she saw him differed from how he saw himself. That was much was clear. Even so, it was refreshing to hear that she was not alone in having themâstruggling to be better than she was, and wondering if she was doing it properly had never occurred to her before. These worries were new. Unfamiliar. Strange. She took a deep breath, and exhaled softly through her nose. Her smile warbled as she turned to look at him once more, âThank you.â A pause, before she swung her gaze towards the leaves hanging overhead. âThough I do think youâre selling yourself short. Maybe weâre both doing better than we think.â
âBesides, Iâd much prefer you do and say things the Cyrus way. Maddening as it may be.â
He snorted, a skeptical sound, but he did not try to refute her. âWell, there you go then. If that's what you think of me, you can hardly think worse for yourself. You've done things your way, and that was the way you can live with. Doesn't seem to be much point in second-guessing it. Only way to go is forward. Stellulam says something like that, sometimes."
Zahraâs mouth quirked up once more, as she turned back onto her forearm, âStel is a wise one.â An optimistic way of looking at things. She hummed low in her throat and made a sound that was somewhere between a snort and a chuckle, âThat doesnât mean I donât want to strangle the man whenever I see him.â At the very least, he didnât come out of his chamber enough to pester her with those lukewarm, judging stares, bellying all the disappointment he mustâve felt laying eyes on her. He didnât come up to the Heraldâs Rest either, so she was quite safe there.
âThis did help, though. Promise to bring me sweets whenever Iâm too furious to face the day?â
He scoffed softly, but then placed a hand over his heart, smiling with mock gallantry. âI promise."