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Whenever they stayed in one place for more than a fortnight, Sorin liked to make their living space their own. Mostly, this meant draping swathes of lovely fabric over the window, which could be lowered to keep out the sun when they slept in late, and arranging whatever beautiful things they acquired into artful collections. Their housekeeping wasn't up to the same stringent standards as their personal grooming, so dust tended to collect on their trinkets and the mirror propped on a table was foggy, but they kept the floor clear, and they had their bedding laundered weekly at the wash house that tucked sachets of lavender in amongst the folded linens. The result was a place that they didn't mind spending time in—especially when they had good company.
Their eyes were closed as they basked in the pleasure of a job well-done, but they could tell from the shift of the mattress and the sound of rustling sheets that their lover had rolled onto her side to face them. It felt like more effort than it was worth to move from their position, lying on their back with their arms crossed behind their head, so they just listened to the sound of her breathing and let her look at them. They would be lovely to look at right now, they knew, hair sex-tousled and skin still flushed, their throat and chest marked with love bites.
"You look pleased," Lamakh said. Her voice was low, a touch hoarse, and teasing in a way that always stirred Sorin's interest, no matter how recently their pleasure had come to a climax. After so many liaisons, they could easily picture how she looked, too, so beautiful in her afterglow that Sorin might just sign away their life to her, if she asked for it.
"What can I say? It pleases me to please you." Sorin sighed, savouring the sweet ache of their jaw and tongue, and Lamakh chuckled.
"Cheeky." They felt the brush of her fingertips on their side, over their tattoo of a compass rose. "What does this mean?"
Sorin caught her fingers in a gentle grip, then opened their eyes and turned their head to look at her. Lamakh's dark eyes were keen as she examined the memory in ink high on their ribs, but her interest seemed benign. They raised her fingertips to their lips and kissed them before answering.
"It means that I was working for passage on a privateering vessel. Everyone was lining up to be inked by the first-mate, and I wanted to fit in."
"That is not all it means," Lamakh's words were equally statement and question as she pulled her hand free and her fingers found their way back to the tattoo. Her tracing touch was ticklish, but not unpleasant. Sorin watched the way that the tendons in her hand flexed and admired the muscles of her forearm.
"Well, he was devastatingly handsome, and I was young and thirsty. I considered putting up with the pain of a second one just to have him touch me again."
"Mm. Why this design?" This was one of the things that Sorin loved most about their Bella; when she wanted to know something, she would find out. With anyone else, they would have used all their tricks to resist such efforts, to keep distance and maintain the mystery. The way that their resolve wavered when it came to this one extraordinary woman? Well, that was one of the things that they hated most about themself, and it was something they couldn't begin to explain.
"It just seemed right," they said, softly, feeling that inexplicable desire to keep talking. But in this instance, at least, there was nothing more they could say. Some things were impossible to put into words. So they just watched as Lamakh traced the arrow pointing north, and then kept going, extending the point and drawing an invisible line that crested the curve of Sorin's rib and crossed their chest to pierce their heart.
Sorin looked up from her discovery, feeling suddenly exposed in a way that had nothing to do with their state of undress, and their gaze met Lamakh's. If their lover was hurt by the way that their expression became guarded, she didn't show it, and to Sorin's great relief, she didn't ask them any more about their tattoo. She just tapped her finger twice over their heart and said, "Roll over."
"Yes, Bella," Sorin purred, defaulting to seduction as a comfortable cover. They made a display of flexing their arms, arching their back, and shaking out their long hair as they shifted position and settled onto their stomach.
"You stop that," Lamakh said, amusement and exasperation in her voice. "No need to put on show. I want you to relax."
"That's what I was doing, before you started tickling me," Sorin said, folding their arms into a pillow for their head. As they settled down and closed their eyes, a wisp of lavender kicked up from the sheets, mingling with Lamakh's clove-ginger scent and the sweet smell of their own hair. When their lover's hot, strong hand settled on the back of their neck, they sighed and began to relax in spite of themself. When her thumb pressed into the tender little muscles where their skull met the top of their spine, they moaned.
"Relax," she repeated, and that was an order that Sorin found it surprisingly easy to obey. They melted into the mattress with her massage that systematically targeted the decades' worth of tension that they carried in their neck, behind their ears, and on their temples. Where did she learn to do this? The same mysterious place that Lamakh had learned everything else that she could do, they supposed.
They were so relaxed that they didn't realise what was happening until Lamakh's palm had already smoothed down their spine to rest on their mid-back, over the worst of their scarring. There was no way that she didn't feel Sorin's entire body go tense. Their head was turned to the side, and they stared at the wall as the heat of her palm radiated through the topographical map of scar tissue.
"How did this happen?"
Sorin wished that she hadn't asked, but she had, and despite themself, they wanted to answer. They kept their tone detached, light, as if they were talking about where they bought their boots, even as they shuddered. "Exactly how you would expect. I fucked up and got caught. At the time, the choice between judgment in the afterlife and submission to 'cleansing castigation' seemed an obvious one."
"Paladins?"
"Not exactly a forgiving bunch, are they?" Sorin confirmed, shutting their eyes again and squeezing them tight. It didn't help—the memories would play out regardless, fragmented and jumbled, but no less horrible for it.
The smell of blood, and acrid sweat, and woody incense. The soft, wet rip of tearing skin. The taste of the leather strap that had been shoved between their teeth. The endless, droning prayer, unintelligible beneath their own muffled screaming that filled their skull and made it so that they couldn't even think.
There were some things they couldn't say, even to their Bella. They swallowed hard as they remembered screaming until their throat tore, until all they could do was choke on their own sobs, and how long it had taken until they could speak above a whisper again. And they couldn't tell her about how they had played the part of penitent afterwards with disturbing sincerity.
Somehow, that was the worst thing: the shame of it. Their inability to take punishment with the stoicism that their mentor would have expected of them, and to come out the other side unbroken.
After a long silence, Lamakh said, "I know scars like these. These were… bad. You were lucky to survive." There was the shadow of contempt behind her words, and the hint of a steely threat, but it wasn't for them. Never had the threat of her glacial wrath been directed at them. As dangerous as they knew she was, they had always felt safe with her... or, as safe as they wanted to.
That was probably foolishness on their part. No, it was certainly foolish, and yet, there they were.
"There was no luck to it, only clever design," Sorin said, and they couldn't help the brittle edge to their own voice. They took a shaky breath, tamping down the memories and focusing on the feeling of Lamakh's hand, which was smoothing firm circles onto their back now. "That's the beauty of healing magic. They can whip you half to death three or four times before the shock sets in."
Sorin started at the silky tickle of Lamakh's hair as she brushed her lips over their scarred skin in a gentle kiss. They relaxed again when they felt Lamakh kissing her way up their spine and the two of them entered into more familiar territory. Her hand slid around to hold the smallest point of their waist, and she lifted herself up on one arm, hovering over them as she nipped at the side of their neck with her teeth.
"No more memories," she murmured. Her accent thickened as she continued. "No more thinking."
"Yes, please," Sorin sighed in relief. They blinked away the wetness in their eyes and rolled over, wrapping their arms around their lover's powerful back and digging their fingers into her green skin. There would be time to regret their unplanned confessions later. For now, they would lose themself in Lamakh, trusting themself to her restrained strength and deliberate tenderness, and hurting only in the ways that they wanted to as she emptied out their head.