bakerstreet | Soulmates

"He is dead," Sansa says finally. "His name is no more, his house is no more, his life is no more. All of my husband is ended."

Sansa had ensured that. When he says that the healing might feel strange, she nods her assent. Strange is the least of things that has happened to her over the course of her life and strange is preferable to the pain which led her to acquire such marks.

"He wished to possess me in every way possible," Sansa says. "To use me as his canvas. He would have done worse, I think, if he did not need to get me with child to hold my castle. I suspect that is why I was spared as much as I was. Ordering his death may have been the greatest indulgence of my life."

He needs not know she executed the sentence herself.

He wouldn't think less of her for it. Sidhe women were just as fierce as the males. His mother might lower her eyes for his father, but she's made her mark on many of both courts that thought less of her.

Rowan stood behind her, looking at the tapestry of pain she was painted in, and he felt a wet trail along his cheek. He so very much wanted to lower his head and kiss one of the marks there, but she wasn't ready for that yet. Or, he wasn't ready to press. He lay both hands against her shoulders, careful, gentle, and he moved his head so his mouth was close to her ear. "It should feel warm, but you've a lot of wounds, love. It might take a bit to heal them all. You can lean back against me if the need arises."

And with that, he unlocked that cage inside him that held his power. His glamour dropped, but only because he wanted no barrier to the magic that he held that he wanted to flood her with. Every mark. Every scar. Every point of her painful history, he wanted to eradicate. And from her husband. In name only, surely. No mate would do this to their other half. No true mate would be this cruel.

Sansa shivers when he whispers against her ear and again when she feels the power flooding through her. She's never felt such a thing in her life before and it feels as if she's been touched by something that doesn't exist in her world. She doesn't even have words for it, not really, only to say that it is both the most comforting and most sensual experience she's ever had.

For someone who has never had any sensual experiences at all, it's very overwhelming, and she tries to keep from making any noises as he touches her. It wouldn't be proper to do such a thing. She leans back against him as he offers and just lets him touch her.

"Your hands are made of magic, I think," she whispers softly.

He feels the shiver, feels when she leans against him, and he's careful in where his hands go. She may not be unbedded, but she's clearly been unloved, and he doesn't want her to associate anything to do with the bedroom and that prick of a husband with him.

Rowan's hands glide down her shoulders, wiping marks away as if they never existed. The skin ripples and melts together, smoothing over like clay, returning to its original porcelain perfection. "All of me is, to some degree," he answers quietly, letting her rest on him and nuzzling a little into the head of red hair that's fascinating him. "Does it hurt?" He doesn't think it does, but he's pouring a lot of power into her and he doesn't want to overwhelm her.

"No, it feels good," Sansa says. She knows she's a little breathless when she says it and she quickly shuts her mouth as to not embarrass herself. Truly she shouldn't be so easily affected by the touch of a healer but it's been ages since anyone has touched her at all and she's never been touched with a gentle hand.

"Too good, possibly, but I imagine it is simply because something broken is finally mending."

Yes. That is what it is precisely. It's the mending of her body that feels so good, not anything else, and she just simply hasn't had the feeling before now. It feels intimate in a way that doesn't feel violating.

"Whatever you can take away without tiring yourself, please do. I do not wish to bear his marks on me any longer. Even if you can only remove them on my back, it will be enough."

"Take my hand," he says, still keeping his voice low. He doesn't quite want her to turn around yet, since he can't get his glamour back up, but he wants her to be in control of what he's about to ask. "Lead it to where the wounds are." He knew there were some in places that were more intimate, but he didn't want to terrify her by touching there himself. She'd had enough of being taken advantage of. In this, he could give her as much control as he was able. "I have more than enough to heal you all, but it will go faster if you lead me to where the wounds are. Otherwise, I'll have to overflow from head down."

A push of power was never a good thing in a human. Not too much, and he didn't want to overwhelm her entirely. It was best if she led the way, because his hands wanted to wander too much.

Sansa squeezes his hand and nervously leads it to touch against the outside of her left thigh. The scars are all over her thighs but she hopes this is enough of a location without her actually having to lead him to it because she doesn't know that she's ready to do that on her own.

"You can infer what he did. Nothing...there but on my thighs, yes. I had to stitch some of them myself and they didn't heal clean because it is different when you are mending skin versus mending a piece of fabric. It embarrasses me to tell you about it so if you can heal it, make it quick?"

When he touches her, it feels good, so she isn't so worried about being hurt. She's more worried about being unbecoming of a lady when she's simply being healed by someone.

"We don't have to talk about it."

"Have to? No, but perhaps you should. I find that with the healing of physical wounds, the ones in the heart and soul want to be healed just as much." His hands slide down to where she's directed, feeling the ridge and bump of badly healed wounds, fingers trembling as that rage burns again. He glows with it, but that's also just the magic filling the space, and he presses that into her, doing his best to erase the marks some monster left on her.

"I'm sorry you were harmed. I'm sorry it was by someone supposed to have cherished you. I'm not sorry he's dead. Probably for the best. I wouldn't have been gentle about it."

"His death was not gentle," Sansa assures him. "So perhaps your wish was granted after all. As to talking about it, what is there to say? A wife is her husband's property to do with what he wishes even if said wife is of royal blood. I had no power in the situation."

She has power now, hard fought and hard won, but it doesn't change the things that happened to her in the past.

"It was a year of pain and now the last of it is being wiped away."

"Then that is something about your land that follows suit with the older versions of the ones I know. Seems that's an ugly trait that happens universally. You, Sansa, are my mate. You might not understand it, and I'm certainly not well versed in the facts of it myself, but you are mine in as much as I am yours. That said, you are not my property. Neither here nor where you hail from. Royal or not. You could be a swineherd's daughter, and I'd speak the same claim."

Probably not the best time to be having a conversation about bonds and mating, when she was all but naked in his arms and letting him use his gift to wipe away the remnants of her suffering. When he was riled up with indignation and rage and yet the pleasant wonder of what she represented. The mate chosen for him. The one perfect for him. And he, hopefully in her eyes, for her. She wasn't ready for the sealing of such a union yet, and he wouldn't demand or even ask it of her. But he'd erase the touch of another as best he could. The scent of beeswax and honeycomb started to rise, the touch of Summer court from his mother surrounding him.

Sansa cannot see his face but she can see his hands, glimmering with that glow once again, and now she honeycomb and beeswax. It reminds her of summertime, of being young, and she wonders if he's making that scent because of the healing or if it's simply part of her imagination. She doesn't mind it either way. When he says mate, she frowns a little.

"Mate? Do you mean bride, then? Because I am rather tired of being a bride. I'm thrice betrothed and twice married and I think I would be very happy never marrying again. If mate means bride, I would rather not become one once again."

She enjoys his touch for a moment. "Or do you mean mate as wolves do?"

"Mate, as in other half. The other part of my soul that's been out there, away from me. It settled in you, and now that I've found you, I don't think I'm inclined to let you go. We don't need to wed. Mates are their own status. Though, I suppose that depends on where we'll be, aye? Here, on Earth, or in your Westeros? Or all of the above? Well, we've time to think about it." He soothed her as best he could, the warmth of his magic pooling through her. His hands moved down to her toes, his body crouching down as he made an attempt to touch every bit of skin he could, all but the two more intimate places he didn't want to breech yet. She'd said they'd been untouched, and if the bastard had been angling for a child, that made sense as much as anything else did.

Still, his hands missed only those spots as he swept them up and over her, touching her everywhere until the marks were nothing more than a memory.

"I see. I would ask why that is even possible, that I be tied to someone from another place entirely, but everything about today has been upside down. What is being a mate to a god when I've already traveled through some sort of invisible door?"

She knows he'd said not to call him a god but it is the only word that makes sense for her. She lifts her hands to cover her breasts and turns to look at him, wanting to see his face. He's still glimmering bright.

"I'm not untouched. If you wanted a maiden, you didn't get one."

"I want what I have, and apparently what I have is you. I don't require a virgin. I'm not sacrificing to anything. And virgins, my dear one, aren't a prize. They don't enjoy their first time for the most part, no matter how much pains one takes to ensure they do. There's always that first pain. You've had more than one pain, and you'll not have another by my hand. That means that when you want to, it will be worth it. But only when you want to. I'll demand no claim to your body or rights over it. Though, I will likely be very jealous if another hand touches you. I don't think it can be helped."

Did he want to explain it like that? Not entirely. But he was fae and incapable of telling a lie. He could have danced around the truth, but she was his mate, so there'd be none of that.

She looked up at him with her arms over her chest, and he moved to pick up the robe he'd brought for her, wrapping it over her shoulders, then in front of her to cover her. "You are whole in body again. I only hope that I'll be able to help heal your heart."

"I have no intentions of being touched by someone else. Letting you touch me was an aberration in and of itself."

Sansa wants to say it is only because he's a healer but she thinks there must be something to this mate thing because she wants to lie with her head in his lap while he plays with her hair or curl up in the bed while she rests on his chest. Those are silly fantasies. Instead, she slides on the robe and belts it.

"So if someone else touches me, you will have nothing to fear over it. I won't be wanting that touch. You're the first person I've ever let touch me like that."

That could be his fae nature leaking through to her. His kind were prone to physical contact. To comfort. To be close. Touching to touch- and if she asked, he'd provide it. But her words were exactly what he expected them to be, which made him more glad he'd kept the worst of his other feelings to himself. Another moment, the healing passing, and he was able to wrap his glamour over himself. All but his eyes. They remained glimmering with a coppery bronze glow as he adjusted the robe to cover more of her. "It hurts me to hear you say that, but not because I'm denied. Because you've been."

He took a step back, giving her space, though he found he had to struggle to make that effort. "It's been a long day for you, I'm guessing. Would you like something to eat?"

"I did not mean to make you think that your touch was unwanted," Sansa says. "I gave my permission for it. I did not lie about saying it felt good. It is just simply not in my nature to let others touch me, that's all."

He mentions food and she realizes that she is hungry so she gives him a quick nod. Something to eat and drink might make her feel a lot less hazy and dreamy, she thinks, and she needs something to ground her just now. She feels as if she might float into the clouds.

"When people touch me, it doesn't normally feel good the way that felt. It is a pity I have no more injuries to heal. I could grow used to such a thing."

He crooked a finger for her to join him as he left the bedroom, heading out to the small kitchenette and looking through to see what he had to feed her. He busied himself with cutting bread and cheese and fruit, opening a jar of honey and one of jam, and cutting up cold meat he had in the ice box. There was food he could cook for later, if she was staying, but for now, to settle her, this light meal would do. "I can make tea, if you like. I don't much like coffee, so apologies for not having that. And as for touching... Sansa, you can touch me whenever you like. It's... my people enjoy it. Not for sex, though I'm not going to say I wouldn't like that as well. But just to be there. To comfort. To love. Touch isn't always about sex or pain."

He lit the small camp stove he had to start boiling water for tea.

"I do not know what it is like to simply...touch. Not any longer. I suspect your touching will not be the same as my siblings embracing me, either, so it will be some strange in-between that is neither a husband claiming his rights nor a familial or friendly embrace. I have never experienced that sort of touch before."

She watches as he bustles around making tea and plating food and wonders, yet again, how she found someone so solicitous in the midst of the woods. Does it have to do with his strange nature, his god-but-not-a-god self? Sansa doesn't know. She does know that she wants to seek more of it out because his presence soothes her.

"You would have to teach me what that sort of touch entails. As to the other - that is what men always want. I do not fault you for enjoying that sort of touch."

He sighs, stopping what he's doing and turning towards her. "Nay, Sansa. That is not what men always want. It's what they're presumed to expect to want. Some men want nothing more than to just have a kind hand as much as any woman does. Aside from that," he said, turning back to his task. "I am not a man, even if it's easier to refer to myself as one to avoid confusion. I'm male, but I'm not human. My wants and needs are... different. I could go centuries with no sex, but I think I'd fade away without touch."

Rue came over and brushed up against his leg, then went over to sit by Sansa, grinning up at her with a foxy smile. "I'm saddened that you don't know the difference. I'm hopeful that you'll be willing to learn. That you want to. And as for touch... well. It's merely that. The physical contact between beings. A pet. A stroke. Sometimes just sitting curled up together can do wonders."

Plate set, he brought it over to the table, and pulling out a chair, he directed her to it. "Water's almost boiled, so tea will be a moment."

"It is easy to go without touch if you harden your heart," Sansa says, delicately taking a bit of food and chewing it thoughtfully before looking back at him. He is himself again, a man, but his eyes are nothing like a man's should ever be. It is a reminder that he is not what he tries to appear to be and that he's that shimmering, golden creature beneath his skin.

"Why is it that you hide your true self from me? I've already seen it," Sansa points out. "So it seems to me that you are taking an unnecessary step to hide it away. Unless you don't like to appear as such?"

Sansa knows plenty about appearances. Every gown she wears is a statement of some sort, a political stance, and perhaps his true form means something of the same. Perhaps it means that he is prepared to be Other and not benign. Sansa thinks if she could look as beautiful as he does when he's shimmering she would stay that way all the time.

Of all the questions she could throw at him, he hadn't been expecting that. Blowing out the flame, he poured hot water in the teapot, then brought it over to the table along with two mugs. He set them down, then sat across from her. He glanced at her again, then sighed, wrinkling his nose in annoyance at himself for not being able to cover his eyes just yet. "Habit. Here, in Underhill, I don't have to. I am what I am, and that is sidhe. It annoys my father that I take after my mother in colouring, as I stand out too much in the Winter Court as something that doesn't belong. In the human world? Necessity. They don't know of us. If they did, I don't know if they'd attempt to slaughter us outright, if they could find a way in, or try to use us and what we can do. Or, piss the older ones off enough that they rip open the doors and let some of the horrors in this land loose on the mortals. Most of us don't want that."

He reached for a piece of bread, mostly just to have something to do with his hands as he waited for the tea to steep. "So, if I want to be a doctor, or anything, out among the humans, I have to look like one. Usually, that isn't a problem. You, my dove, seem to break my walls down. I'm assuming it's some magic that wants to seal the bonds or something similar. But I'm not hiding from you in particular. Just... habitually in general."

"I don't imagine I look much like a winter maid either because I, too, favor my mother. I suppose I would stick out as well in your Winter Court."

Sansa imagines that such a place would be full of people with the Stark look - sober faces, dark hair, dark eyes. She imagines an entire court full of people who look like Jon, actually, and that is not something she can reconcile with Rowan. No, he would not fit in at a court like that.

"It makes sense that it is your practice to hide," Sansa says. "It is my habit to hide myself as well. I've turned from ivory, to porcelain, to steel. I'm not a little girl crying in my room any longer. I have to be stronger than that. Too many people depend on me. When one needs to become something else to survive, you adapt or you die."

Sansa thinks it might be a bit grim but it is the truth. People want to tear down that which is other and different and will look for every weakness to exploit. She knows that intimately.

"That being said, I do think you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen when you're...yourself. It's very tempting."

That made him smile, that last bit at the end, and he looked down and picked at his bread. "All the more reason for me to keep hidden. I won't have you thinking I'm using an advantage to get into your good graces. It seems... unfair. Though, you're not without wiles of your own, dove. I'm already quite taken with your hair. I've been thinking about taking that braid out and just running my fingers through it for the last half hour."

He sat so his legs were stretched out ahead of him, his chair turned so that they didn't stray too far into her space. He watched her pick at her meal, then moved to pour her a cup of tea. "You look beautiful. I've found that those that survive horrors and maintain a shred of decency are the ones that are the most lovely. It's easy to be cruel in return for the same treatment. It's harder to remember kindness."

"If you wanted to touch my hair, I wouldn't be opposed to it. I always liked having my maid brush it out."

Sansa rarely has a maid do that for her any longer, preferring to be practical and do her own hair for the day, but perhaps there is a certain charm in letting someone you don't consider to be a servant take down your hair for the day. After all, it is simply her hair, and it isn't as so that is so intimate a touch that it might hurt. That isn't something she's particularly afraid of.

Sansa sips at her tea and eats a little more. She's always been a light eater and especially during winter because they were all tightening their belts to avoid famine. It feels as if she's being wasteful to have all of this food to herself.

"Our winter is brutal just now," she says, taking a bit of bread and honey. "We don't have honey and our bread is far from the best. This is a feast and I feel as if I am being spoiled. I would eat this much for two meals, I think, and try to stretch it for three. I might be the queen but I'll starve before my people starve."

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