Chapter Text
My dearest friend,
I arrived yesterday in Verchiel – it is beautiful this time of year, but it took me everlong to arrive thanks to poor conditions at sea. My cousin Philomela has kindly offered me lodging in her home whilst she is in Val Royeaux, and I have a wonderful view of Chateau du Valmont! You would not believe how busy this city is, so many people coming and going!
I am so looking forward to this time away – my sister was correct that a month in the Orlesian countryside is just what I needed to recover from the loss of dear Emil. Kisses to Tara and the children.
Ever yours,
Ariana
My dearest friend,
Please forgive my folly – I realised this morning I have not written in two weeks! My health has taken a turn, and the healer believes I should stay in Verchiel until the next full moon, rather than leaving after this one. Nothing to worry about – I believe the loss of our beloved Emil has struck a chord within me, and I simply cannot fathom returning with him so recently gone.
I have spent many days in Philomela’s garden, admiring the flowers. I feel they will come in useful throughout my recovery. I do hope I have done them justice below.
I hope to see you soon, my dearest friend. Perhaps once I have gathered myself! I will write again, kisses to Tara and the children.
Ever yours,
Ariana
(This letter is accompanied by a small drawing of several flowers, and a snake wound amongst them – the snake bears a striking resemblance to Emil, Viago’s adder.)
My dearest friend,
You will be so impressed – I have secured a ticket to the most grand occasion! Their Lord and Ladyship host an annual ball, and Philomela has arranged for me to attend! Can you imagine, she managed this all the way from Val Royeaux! I simply must send her a gift when I am home.
The ball is to take place a week from today, so I must send this quickly, else I shall be late for my fitting at the modiste! I have arranged for a beautiful assortment of flowers from Philomela’s garden to be my gift to their Lord and Ladyship at the ball – I am sure they will adore them!
Kisses to Tara and the children.
Ever yours,
Ariana
(Another sketch accompanies this letter – Ashara herself in a gown that looks to be Antivan-inspired but Orlesian-made.)
My dearest friend,
A Valmont ball is truly a wondrous sight – though the entertainment for the evening was sorely lacking. Our esteemed hosts caused quite the stir– I shall tell you all about it when I return home! My ship has sadly been delayed, so I have procured a carriage to take me from Verchiel to Jader, where I will sail.
I may linger on the Imperial Highway – I have collected much during my stay, and I fear I cannot carry all of it through Halamshiral and all the way to Jader!
Hugs to Tara and the children.
Ever yours,
Ariana.
The weeks since Ashara left were…difficult to begin with.
Viago has never been renowned for his pleasing temper, but even Matin has raised an eyebrow at how surly his master has been. It is only once her first letter arrives that Senor de Riva finally seems to relax, though he grows surly again when seven days go by without correspondence.
He knows he is being ridiculous, but– He worries! She is his protege, after all – he has put so much time and work into her, she is his prize pupil, his greatest accomplishment, and if something were to happen to her, it would mean years of work snuffed out.
(Ice fills his gut at the idea of Ashara and snuffed out existing in the same sentence. Best not to think on that for too long.)
He finds himself distracted, though no one would know – if anything, he seems more attentive, spending longer hours at the Cantori Diamond, working on contracts, taking a few of his own, brewing and restocking his poisons and antidotes cupboards.
When he receives the letter and the sketch of Ashara in a ball gown, he drops it like he has been burned.
Hours later, he picks up the sketch as he takes himself in hand, gloves cast aside on the rosewood desk. He hadn’t realised Ashara was so talented with charcoal, and the letter still holds the faintest hint of honeysuckle and roses. He slicks his hand with oil (and it is a coincidence, nothing more, that the oil happens to be rose oil) and groans as he slowly strokes his arousal.
He shouldn’t. Shame floods him and goes straight to his groin, the hot mortification only fueling his desire. She is his responsibility. She is his Crow.
“Only you, Viago,” her voice echoes in his ear.
Viago moans, thumb catching some of the precum from his weeping slit and using it to further ease the slow glide of his hand. It has been too long since he last did this, and considering that he and Teia have been off again since their last break up (which seems very permanent this time, though this does not fill him with the usual nostalgia or longing, just a comfortable acceptance that they are better as friends), his bare hand feels divine.
With his free hand, he holds the sketch of his uccellina(little bird), and his mouth goes dry as he imagines her in silks, in chiffon, in nothing at all, stretched out nude on his bed, crying out in pleasure rather than panic as he feasts between her legs and brings her to ecstasy after ecstasy, peak after peak–
He grunts as he spills across his hand, faintly shocked by the suddenness of his climax.
Hot shame chases the feeling of cooling seed. She deserves better than this, better than a lecherous Talon eight years her senior, better than the paranoid bastard of the King, better than him. This cannot happen again.
(It does.)
The Dawn Lotus arrives just after nightfall, seven weeks after Ashara de Riva left Treviso. Her hair is longer, her skin scattered with more freckles and dark moles than before, and her eyes are brighter. As she disembarks the ship with just the clothes on her back, her thick green cloak, and her rucksack, she smiles at her home.
Because Treviso is her home, but that is not where she is looking. Viago stands by the dock, leaning against one of the many buildings, expressionless.
“Fifth Talon,” she dips her head respectfully as she approaches him, desperate to tease, desperate to hug him, desperate to– She shakes her head as if trying to rid water from her ears, rather than inappropriate thoughts from her head.
“Ashara,” he responds simply, and reaches for her bag. She is so surprised that she lets it go without a fight and falls into step beside him as they walk towards the de Riva apartments. They chat about nothing in particular – the beautiful birds she saw in Jader; that Lucanis has apparently been dead set on acquiring a wyvern, of all things!; and the cat that lived on the Dawn Lotus, which had taken to her from the very first evening aboard – as they slowly meander their way home.
Home.
Viago is her home, she realises. And what a fucking stupid move that is, because that can never happen. If it was going to happen, it would’ve the night she left– but it didn’t, and she’s certain he sees her as nothing more than his protege.
He guides her up the stairs, not to his office, but to the study where she fell asleep so many nights after That Night, the one attached to his quarters. He pours her a drink, smiles indulgently as she tests it with her own kit from her pocket first, and tests his own.
They sit quietly for a few minutes before he looks up at her with an expression that could be called resigned and says, “In the middle of the ballroom, Ashara? Really?”
Her laughter filled the study. Because of all of the things she had expected, that was not what she had thought he would start with. (Privately, she thought he would’ve started with reprimanding her for being delinquent in her reports.)
“Whilst I was doing my reconnaissance, I discovered that Lord and Lady Valmont had a… predilection for their elven servants,” she said, giving him a look. “I’m sure you understand I could not let that go unpunished.”
The Adder’s Kiss she had slipped into their drinks worked beautifully, the dosage and suspension agent keeping them in fine health until they both dropped dead in the middle of the ballroom midway through the ball.
The piece de resistance, though, had been the paperwork that was obtrusively sticking out of Lord Valmont’s doublet, which painted a sordid picture of treason, exploitation, and slave trading. And that the loudest gossip in Verchiel happened to be the first to spy those papers as they fell from his Lordship’s breast on his untimely demise?
Sheer coincidence.
Viago clearly does not believe her, and he groans. “You vex me,” he tells her, taking a long drink of his wine. “But the Empress was apparently quite pleased – her agent has sent a bonus.” He puts the bag on the table and pushes it towards her. It is twice as heavy as it should be, even accounting for the House cut.
As she lifts it, she catches sight of the well worn sketch she had sent him a month earlier, of her in the gown that had been made for the ball. If she’s surprised, she doesn’t show it, even as Viago quickly covers it with another letter.
“Contract compete,” she tells him happily, handing back the scroll as is their custom. Viago smiles, a real, genuine smile, and accepts the scroll, standing to place it in the wardrobe behind him, where completed contracts end up for record keeping (or blackmail).
“And the children?”
“The three Valmont children arrived as unexpected guests at the Winter Palace two weeks ago,” she reports cheerfully. “Accompanied by their closest confidantes, and their nannies.” Briala had been more than happy to take the elven nannies and their children under her wing, and the Empress was pleased that her young relatives were in good spirits and behaving as children should, playing with their companions and, surprisingly, not asking after their parents.
Ashara had taken the time to explain that there had been a terrible accident and she was charged with bringing them safely to their closest relative, the Empress. The youngest child had asked if there would still be honey-bread, and the oldest had simply been happy that the three of them would remain with their friends.
Her mentor nods. “You’ve done well, uccellina(little bird).” He pauses, swirls his wine, and takes a sip. “... How are you?”
The air shifts slightly. Ashara lets her mask fall and relaxes back into the chair – no more are they Talon and Master Assassin, now they can just be Viago and Ashara.
“I– Better,” she lands on. “I am better. It— The contract was the right decision. I don’t know that I ever– that I would have been able to go without you ordering me away.”
“That was not–”
“I know,” she says quickly, realising how that must’ve sounded. “I know. What I meant is… if anyone had suggested I get out of Treviso for a bit, I don’t think it would have helped. But you… you gave me a contract. And a Crow never fails a contract.”
A small smile plays on her lips as she looks up at him. “You taught me that.”
“That I did,” he muses, smiling at her over the rim of his wine and watching as she takes her own long sip. The Antivan red is one of his better vintages, and they both know it. They sit again in comfortable, companionable silence, listening to the crackle of the flames in the hearth and drinking their wine.
Soon, the bottle is gone, and they are sitting on the couch rather than at his desk. Ashara has kicked off her boots (and then retrieved them and placed them neatly by the door at the horrified expression on Viago’s face), and rests her feet in his lap as he recounts some of what she has missed.
His thumb brushes against her ankle and her breath catches in her throat. The air shifts again, suddenly hotter and heavier. Ashara looks up at Viago, swallowing hard. It’s just the faintest touch of skin on skin, but it has her feeling electrified in the best way.
“I– should go,” she murmurs, pulling herself up and swinging her legs so her feet are on the ground. “Long trip. Tired, you know.” She’s glad her hair has grown, because at least the tips of her ears are covered – no doubt they are red as the peppers Lucanis likes to grind up for his paella.
“Ashara…”
“Goodnight, Viago,” she shoots him a bright smile as she pads across his study and grabs her boots and the hefty bag of gold her contract has netted her. He looks, for a moment, like he is going to say something, like he might get up and walk over to her, but he doesn’t.
“Buonanotte(Good night), uccellina(little bird).”
His voice follows her from the room, something soft in his tone that she cannot place. The door shuts behind her, and Ashara de Riva returns to her own bed for the first time in many, many months.
As she enters her quarters and deposits her earnings in the small safe she keeps beneath a loose floorboard, Ashara realises that her pile of blankets must still be in Viago’s quarters, because the room is missing the pops of red, green, blue, gold, and purple that usually make it feel so cozy and comforting. But there’s no way she is returning there tonight, not with the ache between her legs growing with every passing second.
She locks her door (ultimately a pointless exercise – there is no door that a de Riva Crow cannot breach, besides Viago’s study) and strips off her travelling clothes, dropping them into the empty hamper and reaching for her sleeping linens. Her hand catches on the shirt Viago had given her on That Night, and try as she might, she can’t bring herself to put it back.
It hits midthigh and she pads to her bed, sliding under the cool sheets with a sigh. Sleep. She can sleep. Sleep is good.
But the ache pulses still.
She rolls over, determined to ignore the neediness between her thighs. She is a Master Crow. She has control over her body. But seconds turn into minutes and she realises after a little while that there will be no rest until she is sated.
“Cazzo(Fuck), fine!”
She hasn’t done this in a long time – after That Night, even seeing herself bereft of clothes was difficult until she left for her contract. Touching herself had been completely out of the question. But now..
Nerves lubricated by the wine she had indulged in, it’s a simple thing to slowly slide her hands down her body. Viago’s tunic still smells a little like him, woodsy and musky, and she most certainly does not tuck her head down so she can inhale the scent of it whilst her fingers ghost across her breasts.
Her breath catches as she starts slowly, letting her fingers trace soft circles on her tummy, stroking closer to her breasts but never quite touching. The gentle caresses make her breath hitch and she whimpers as she cups her breasts and lets her thumbs brush across her nipples. She has never been quite so soft with herself, so sensual, but it feels good and so she lets the feelings guide her.
Ashara had never thought of her tits as particularly impressive or overly sensitive, but as she kneads the soft flesh and traces her nipples, her hips twitch and that hot throb between her legs grows more insistent. Her mouth is dry as she lets one hand drift lower, tugging up the hem of the nightshirt to expose her tanned legs, her bare sex, and her stomach.
She lifts the tunic until it sits just above her breasts and Viago’s cologne is more concentrated. The smell fills her senses as she tweaks one pert nipple and she moans, hips jerking off the sheets. Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t stop, rolling the little nub until she can’t stop herself from whining and squirming.
And then she does it again to the other breast, until her heel is dragging across the bedsheets and she can feel a slickness between her thighs. Her free hand skirts towards her exposed core but she stops just above her pelvis and drags her nails across her skin.
That makes her spine arch, a shiver rolling through her as it sends a needy bolt straight to her center. She swallows another moan as she lets her fingers dance slowly towards where she wants them most – Maker, she just wants to touch herself, but she deserves this.
Her finger swipes across her folds and she is shocked at how wet she is – slick, slippery, soaked. The feeling makes her moan louder, and she gathers some of that slick on her finger and nudges at the bundle of nerves at the apex. This, too, makes her moan.
This continues for minutes until there is a sheen of sweat at her brow and every stroke of her fingers makes her spine curve and arch. Her foot drags along the bedsheets as her thighs fall open and as she lets one slim finger dip inside, she is struck by how much bigger Viago’s hands are than hers, how one of his fingers is likely two of hers, and she adds a second without even thinking about it.
The stretch is divine.
The press of her fingers, the way the heel of her hand presses against her needy clit – it’s all perfect, no, it’s more than perfect, it is everything. She’s mewling and squirming now, plucking at her nipples one after another, crying out as she squeezes just a hair harder than she normally would have.
It’s delicious, the way it sends heat straight to her core.
One hand on her breast, the other in her cunt, and her moans fill the room. Her hips chase her hand greedily, desperate for more, desperate for that decadence she has denied herself for so, so long. It creeps up on her as she imagines Viago’s voice in her ear, calling her uccellina(little bird), calling her tesoro(darling.), telling her how beautiful she looks as she cums on his fingers, how gorgeous she will look taking his cock.
“Bellissima(Beautiful),” she hears in her mind, and it tips her over the edge as her thumb presses sharp, erratic circles around her throbbing clit.
She shatters, and only one word leaves her lips.
“Viago!”
She sleeps soundly through til morning, and when she sees him in the communal kitchen for breakfast, his hair mussed and wearing the dark plum gloves that featured in one of her dreams last night, her ears flick and flush so red that Marisol asks if she caught the sun in Orlais.