you're the attention to my detail

something something mòraghid subtle sexiness of the wives

Though Mòrag is always keen to keep herself in top form, shoes smartly shined and coattails promptly pressed, it's the wrinkles and smudges that she focuses most on, and other blipping items get served thereafter; patterns over problems, mistakes over minutiae.

A button out of place, slipped halfway through the double-darned embroidery-sturdied hole, will always be caught, but then lint from the sleeve of the arm of the hand that reached up to make such an adjustment will find its way onto the pristine white, and never quite fully hide itself among black and navy and gold.

So Brighid reaches over, fingertips carefully cooled, to flick the little speck of fuzz away, and just as Mòrag is about to nod her stiff, perfunctory thanks, because of course she's ever-so-slightly embarrassed, even among present company, the finger sweeps down and brushes beneath the curve of her chest as well.

Not for any reason. Just because. Just so.

They're alone in the courtyard; there's no one around to see them, or it, much less notice them, or it, much less make a fuss out of them, or it.

Not that that makes the gesture mean absolutely any less. No, not at all.

Ladairs have impeccable posture. All Ardanachs do.

They have for five hundred years, which means four-hundred-ninety-four plus twenty and two gives five-hundred-sixteen, the age Mòrag was when they resonated, and in fact Hugo the same, and maybe it's not so early after all, but Niall's only fourteen and Hugo was just that young when it came time for Aegaeon, and--

These postures they uphold are crafted of both attitude and stature itself. She's often stilted in the way she wants to question the system, to lunge for a purpose that includes both her and Brighid while not excising the boundaries she was given when Niall supplanted her as imperator-to-be.

Brighid's heels aren't always the only ones excessively clacking, as the Special Inquisitor paces in large halls and stamps in small corners, making not half so satisfying a sound as the proverbial crystalline stilletto would.

Of course she's always pacing, when her half-deference rears irony's head and she wants to question the orders that come down - only, from Niall, they come up...

Pace all but Brighid, she would prefer not to have to stifle her disquietude, but of course she needn't even speak to let that party know how she feels.

It doesn't take much to learn Mòrag's eating habits; she, like any born-and-raised Ardanian, prefers stout, healthful (if slightly unpalatable) food, and a hearty, say, quoteletta will never find its way onto her plate without the appropriate accompanying vegetables. Perhaps a bitter artichoke's woody green sprout, slices of boiled Dolphin Carrot...a healthy mound of Steamflake Tabbouleh, if the day feels particularly adventurous?

It's nothing Brighid herself particularly enjoys - she prefers the clean flavors of seafood, though she is more partial to sweet things than she had been in her previous lives, or so her journals say. No, you might call it voyeuristic, but as a Blade who has, indeed, spent centuries chronicling much more alternately significant or personal information about such cycles of life, she just enjoys...watching.

For instance, Mòrag makes sure to squirrel away even those least tender bits of beef or veg. Brighid never would, owing to a more efficient metabolism and generally lower reliance on calories and nutrients for sustenance.

Just as she's lifting the last forkful to her mouth, her eyes flick over to catch a glimpse of those ephemeral violet peeking open.

"Did you need something, Brighid?"

"No, Lady Mòrag. Nothing at all."

Water, though often idealized by Brighid, in the form of a hot shower or other luxurious, even luxuriating, activity, suffers weakness to Fire Blades. That is, not only do Water Blades find themselves disadvantaged should their blazing opponents get the upper hand (of course it would simply be the other way around, were it the other way around), but as a natural substance, it has quite the dousing power.

Confronted with the rain when moving troops in Uraya, away from Mor Ardain's usual dryly muggy heat, Brighid can do nothing but grit her teeth and bear it as the crests of her buns are tousled by the uncaring, non-nurturing spitfire hands of nature.

She has long learned not to be anything but proud - trembling at such an everyday insignificance would far from befit her. So she stands firm, hiding the wobbles that come underneath her heels, bearing it.

Mòrag does not bear it so well. Her forehead creases, underneath the brim of her cap, and Brighid's eyelids twist just the tiniest bit, side to side, as she watches the Special Inquisitor do everything but turn away to attend to more pressing matters.

They are bonded. Oh, they are so bonded.

"Shall we take a break, Lady Mòrag?"

The office is far from dingy, dusted as it is twice daily - once would be in the golden daylight of mid-morning, streaming lazily yet somehow also briskly through the windows, and the other would be right around now, exactly twelve hours later, but of course when the Special Inquisitor is busy, bent over whichever nameless, timeless, useless paperwork, well...the cleaning staff have learned to steer their benign way as neatly as possible around her presence.

Is she neurotic? Not quite. Is she absentminded? Not quite. Is she irritable? Not quite. But Brighid nudges, and Mòrag half-fidgets and half-jerks, and she protests hazily, "No, Brighid, why on Alrest would we do that?"

As she does it, the air becomes quite a bit stiller. With one arm laid across Mòrag's back, heat draping all of the invisible knots in perfect harmony, Brighid murmurs, "I know it's not your way to stop when we're humming right along, but...?"

"Ah. You noticed." The unconscious nervous tic isn't loud, but it is insistent, and the both of them aren't particularly partial to especially nasal sounds.

"Of course I did. I know you all too well not to."

It's a special occasion, but not specifically for them, so Brighid doesn't really remember its name - Mòrag always would, but we're shifting perspectives here, right? Or maybe I just don't care to bother to have to tell you. Take your pick.

Regardless, they're in best crimson (more fuschia, a bright orchid hue) and dress whites, and as they stand arm in arm off to the side of the proceedings, Mòrag casts a satisfied, almost calculating glance over at the Jewel - that is to say, her jewel, and I wouldn't use the epithet otherwise.

She leans closer, and something flushes, just as she expected - an eyebrow, dark and elegant as the sheen of her uncapped hair, quirks up, and she remarks casually but genuinely, "Your blush is quite pretty, Brighid."

Brighid's answer is nearly a scoff: "It's just Propeller Poppy powder."

"No, no." Now the thumb, swiftly and silently ungloved, reaches towards that perfectly dusted cheek. "I said your blush. You're happy to be here, aren't you? With me?"

"Why, Lady Mòrag...I'm touched that you noticed."

Back down comes Mòrag's hand, patted gently over her lady's rested in the crook of her elbow. "As am I, Brighid. As am I."

HAPPY BIRTHDAY LOVELY i think the stars aligned at least a little bit for me to finally finish this exactly right for you today <333 AS THEY SHOULD BECAUSE YOU DESERVE IT (not just for the purposes of me writing you fic. but you know)

I ALSO,,,ended up crowdsourcing most of the concepts for the things (strange little process, this piece) so those were

1. (me :)
2. Lora
3. Roan
4. B
5. June
6. (me again :))

ily all thanks so much for so patiently helping me stitch together this little thing with the utmost care ^-^ SPECIAL THANKS TO MEL you get the point i'm just being silly now.. and here are the stars that were cluttering up the list ★★★★★★