Saga Tales of Lasan: Short Stories in the Lasan Series

Author: Findswoman
Title: Sleeping Honor
Era: Saga—PT (about 25 BBY); directly after chapter 3 of @Raissa Baiard ’s The Beginning of Honor
Characters: OC, Zeb Orrelios (at age 19), borrowed OC (see notes below)
Genre: Vignette, early romance—and all right, fine, mush.
Summary: A young Zeb, recovering in the infirmary of the Lasan High Honor Guard base after the events of The Beginning of Honor, receives a visitor.

Notes: A postscript to The Beginning of Honor, referencing the events of that story from a different character’s viewpoint. As such, part of the Lasan Series by Raissa Baiard and myself.

Zeb’s younger brother, Garashai (Shai) Orrelios, is Raissa’s OC, whom I borrow here with gratitude.

This is one of my first attempts at writing romance or mush, so I ask for the patience and forbearance of my readers.

Many thanks to Raissa Baiard for collaborating on the Lasat fanon surrounding this story and giving me the go-ahead to dovetail it with her own; and to both @Ewok Poet and Raissa for feedback, beta reading, and encouragement.

​

Sleeping Honor

Storms’ End had been yesterday—as had the storm.

That storm had been bigger than any that had occurred during the Dust Season proper. It had blown up suddenly in the middle of the day, just as the Storms’ End fair was in full swing on the Royal Lasat Parade Grounds. Fairgoers had scattered in desperation, young kits shrieking at the top of their lungs as they clung to their parents. Booths and tents had been flung apart by the heavy winds. Any wares that vendors had not had time to stuff back into their crates or boxes lay scoured and shredded on the ground. Broken glass and crockery were strewn everywhere. Grimy dust covered everything.

Through this landscape of chaos and gloom walked the young initiate shaman, wrapped in her scarlet cloak with her satchel over her shoulder. A slight breeze ruffled her long purple-black hair as she stepped carefully over shards, debris, and spillage. The grit chafed the pads of her toes, but she kept walking. As she walked, her thoughts went back to the day before.

Two of the other initiates, Rishla and Yhazi, had prevailed upon her to come out with them to the Warrior, the mighty stone spire overlooking Lira Zel, in order to watch the young males make their yearly climb. (“Oh, Shulma, you have to come!” they said. “All the young men will be climbing!” they said. “I bet that cadet will be climbing,” they said.) She remembered how her friends had clapped and cheered and hooted for each of the climbers, and how flighty, flirty Yhazi had swaggered off with that lieutenant who had made it almost to the top. But Shulma had had eyes for only one of the young men there: that cadet, the handsome, muscular first-year with the swirling dark-purple arm-stripes. She recalled how he had smiled at her from afar—how the sun had glinted off those leaf-green eyes, those razor-sparkling teeth—and how her heart had skipped a beat.

She recalled his climb—how he had climbed so high—and then, all in that single dreadful moment, how horror had palled his face, how he had lost his grip, scrabbled desperately at the rock, fallen to the ground, and hurried off back to town! It was as though he had forgotten someone or something. She had gazed after him until Rishla prodded her to pay attention, as some other cadet with a huge, bushy beard was starting his climb. But by then her heart was no longer in it, for he was no longer in it.

Later, when the storm siren sounded and they were all hustling back toward town, she had seen him running back toward the Warrior, directly into the building winds, shouting something about his younger brother who was lost out there on the trail. She had signed the Triangle and whispered a prayer to the Ashla for his and his brother’s safe return. They had all taken shelter in the Honor Guard base and stayed there for what must have been hours, huddled together, waiting, hoping, until a speeder pulled up at the gate—

—and he had jumped out, caked with stormgrit, limbs abraded and bleeding, his injured little brother curled up in his arms. He had run with the wounded kit into the infirmary himself, declining the stretcher offered by the medics. Ah, that image of true courage and honor!

That was the last she had seen of him that day. She had made up her mind that she would visit him and his brother in the infirmary the next day at her earliest convenience. And that was precisely what she was doing now.

At the far end of the parade grounds Shulma shook the grit from her feet and descended the broad stone steps leading to the lower part of the canyon, which was dominated by the massive complex of the Honor Guard base. To refresh her memory she consulted the directory map that stood beside the guard station: the infirmary was on the far west side. The security drone in the guard station signed her in, performed a quick security scan, and searched her bag. As soon as it declared her all clear, she made as quickly as she could for the infirmary.

She was greeted at the front desk by a uniformed female secretary a few years older than she. “Good day, ma’am. May I help you?”

“Yes, please. I—I am here to—to visit someone.”

“Right.” The secretary gestured to a datapad lying on one corner of the desk. “Please sign in here with your name, the time, and the room number.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know the room number.”

“I’ll look it up. Patient’s name, last name first?”

“Orrelios, Garazeb.” The shaman shuffled her feet nervously; it always made her heart flutter a little to say that name out loud. Not that there had been many opportunities yet...

The secretary, who had scarcely begun typing on her computer terminal, suddenly looked up, narrowing her eyes quizzically at the pretty, long-haired, female visitor before her. “You’re not a family member, are you?”

“No, just... a friend.”

“Mmm.” The shadow of a smirk flitted over the secretary’s face as she began typing again.

“A-and of course as a shaman of the Academy I—I am willing to offer him any spiritual assistance that he may desire—”

“Yes, I’m sure you are.” The secretary hit one final, decisive key on her terminal. “He’s in 206.”

“Thank you.” She signed in quickly on the datapad, avoiding the secretary’s gaze.

“The stairwell is down this hallway to your right. Go upstairs, turn left, and 206 will be at the end of the hall.”

“Thank you,” Shulma said again. Without looking back, she made for the stairs.

Room 206 was a double room. Its two cubicles were separated by a partition, with a curtain covering the opening between them. The cubicle closer to the door was occupied by a young male of about fourteen dust seasons, still young enough to have a full head of dark purple hair, who lay asleep with one leg elevated in a thick cast. This was certainly the younger brother who had been lost and rescued. Shulma took a piece of chalk from her satchel and marked a few mystical glyphs on the floor surrounding the bed, all the while chanting prayers of healing under her breath. Then she pushed aside the curtain and entered the next cubicle.

There he was! She tiptoed over to look more closely. He too lay in tranquil sleep, motionless except for the gentle rise and fall of his chest. They had cleaned him of the dust and grit, but there were bacta strips all along his arms, partly obscuring the handsome pattern of his stripes. A blanket covered him from his chest through his lower legs; the strong, prehensile feet that had grappled so deftly with the Warrior and run so swiftly along the trail were now wrapped in bacta dressings up to the ankles. And his face—

That face! Shulma sank with a sigh into a chair beside the bed, her eyes fixed on the vision before her—on the rippling sideburns the color of the night sky, on the swirling deep purple stripes that edged the forehead and cheeks, on the chiseled, deep-set features that were now steeped in slumber. A large bacta pad stretched from his temple down to his cheek, another crossed part of his forehead, and the corner of a third poked out from one of his ears. This indeed was the face of courage, of bravery, of honor—and oh, how it deserved that sweet rest after such a trial!

Shulma sat there gazing for several more moments, her face warming and her heart surging. The wisp of a thought crossed her mind: what if she tried to—? No, a kiss would be too much for now. A touch? His cheek, his beard, the edge of his ear? Tempting, certainly, but possibly also a bit much. But his hand lay across his chest...

She reached over and drew two fingertips across the dark purple stripe that crossed his knuckles. That strong hand that had snatched a child from danger! So solid, and yet so soft...

“Mmmmrrfff? Wha...?”

He snorted and shifted heavily. At once Shulma pulled her hand away, dropped to the floor, and began chalking healing glyphs around the bed. If he really was waking up—and the continued sounds of shifting hinted that he was—this was at least a way she could buy herself time until her blushes went down. When she returned to the chair, he was sitting up in bed, fully awake, glancing all around with wide green eyes—which nearly jumped out of their sockets when they fell on the young shaman sitting beside him.

“SHULMA! Karabast! I... um... er....”

“Hi, Zeb.” She waved timidly. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, er... um... well, all right... had worse, had better...” Again he shifted and glanced around. “What... er... are you doing here?”

“I just... thought I’d come visit you. And Shai too, of course.”

“Right! Of course! I mean... hi.”

“Hi,” she said again, the glint of a smile illuminating her face.

Both were silent for a moment. Zeb’s face fell as he looked down at his bandaged limbs. “Aw, karabast... I... I’m sorry... I look terrible...”

“It’s all right,” she consoled him. “You’ve been through a lot.” You only ran out into the middle of the biggest dust storm of all this past year to find your little brother and bring him to safety, she wanted to add.

“Suppose so. Still...”

“Not everyone would have been able to do what you did.” You are a true Honor Guard and warrior of Lasan.

Zeb lay back, clenching his fists. “Too much I didn’t do. Shouldn’t have left Shai behind in the first place. If I’d stayed at the fair and watched him like I was supposed to, none of this would’ve happened and my kid brother wouldn’t have a broken ankle and I wouldn’t be such a miserable scraped-up mess.”

“Zeb. Don’t blame yourself.” Shulma resisted the urge to reach over and gently unclench those strong hands, to lay them back across that broad chest. “The main thing is that you made things right again. You went out there yourself and rescued him from the storm.” You will be your brother’s hero forever. As you are mine.

“Aw, you have no idea... he was so mad at me when I found him... almost wouldn’t let me take him...”

“I don’t see how he could possibly still be angry with you now.”

“I deserve it,” Zeb growled, pounding a bandaged fist on the bed. “I deserve for him to hate me. I left him. I failed him. And to think it’s all because I wanted to—” He broke off.

“Wanted to what?”

“Well...” Zeb heaved another sigh. “When the others were tryin’ to get me to go out to climb the Warrior, I... I only went because...”

“Because what?”

“Because I kinda thought you might be out there, watching.”

Shulma’s eyes widened. “Zeb... may I tell you something?”

“What’s that?”

“Well... the only reason I went out there in the first place was... because I thought you might be climbing. I didn’t care about any of the others.” For you are a bristlecone among the shrubs of the timberline. “Though Ashla knows Rishla and Yhazi tried their best to get me to.” She laughed slightly, remembering her friends’ enthusiastic coaxing and their raucous cries of encouragement to the climbers. “You really did quite well, you know.”

“Aw, yeah, I did quite well, all right... until I slid down the rock, scraped up my arms and legs, fell on my behind, and—WHAT WAS THAT?!”

Zeb sprang back to a sitting position as the half-snort, half-snicker of unsuccessfully stifled youthful laughter filtered in from the adjoining cubicle. “Karabast,” he muttered. “Blasted kit’s awake, isn’t he?”

Shulma gestured to the curtain. “I can... close this, if you would like.”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

She rose and did so, though despite her best efforts the curtain did not fully cover the opening between the cubicles. Indeed, Shai piped up with “I can still see you, Zebby.”

“That’s great, kid,” muttered his older brother, shifting uncomfortably as he lay back down.

Shulma returned to her chair and made to pick up her satchel. “Perhaps I should go.”

“No no no! Wait!” Zeb’s hand shot out and grasped her arm, coaxing her back down. “There’s something I… um… wanna ask you.”

“Yes?”

“Well, yesterday... I’d been thinkin’ that if everything went well I would take you back to the fair and buy you a mug of cider... or some pastries... or something... and I just wondered...”

“Wondered what?”

“If... if I could still do that. I mean, there’s no more fair, of course. But I thought it would still be nice to—I mean, y’know, once I’m all better—”

“Yes, certainly!” I will go anywhere with you, beloved warrior! Well, within the bounds of reason and propriety. But cider and pastries? Of course.

“They said maybe two more days, one more if I’m—” The youthful laughter cut in again. “SHUT UP, SHAI! I KNOW THAT’S YOU!”

“I’m sorry, Zebby!” came the giggling voice from the next cubicle. “I can’t help it! Just listen to you!”

“Blasted fool kit,” grumbled Zeb, ignoring the additional giggle he received in response and turning away in embarrassment from Shulma. Even so, she noticed the dark flush that now filled his face, almost obscuring the tapered stripes that adorned it at the edges—and she felt heat and color rising in her own face too.

“I really had better go now,” she said, getting up again.

“NO! Please, no!” Again he put out a hand to stay her. “I mean—before you do, just one more thing, I promise—”

“What?”

“Could you, um—maybe give me—a blessing? Or a prayer? Or—something? Since you’re—a shaman of the Academy and all that?”

“Yes, of course.” She thought for a moment about what would be appropriate. “Perhaps a few verses from the Consecration of the Valorous Wounded from the Wartime Rite?” I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more.

“Yeah, sure!... I mean, whatever you want.”

Shulma took the chalk from her satchel once again and made one more mark, this time on the wall above the head of Zeb’s bed: a large glyph resembling three highly stylized crossed bo-rifles, one in rifle mode, one in staff mode, and one in the mode of the ancients. She glanced down at him as she drew; the glowing smile he wore as he relaxed back onto his pillow was not lost on her. She traced the Triangle on her breast, placed her hands on Zeb’s forehead, and began her incantation in soft, plaintive tones:

Ashla, sovereign brightness
of the highest reaches:
o’er thy wounded Garazeb—

“Hey! Stay still!” she chuckled, steadying him. He had jumped at the sound of his name.

“Sorry, sorry... just wasn’t expecting—”

“If you prefer I can use the generic group form, ‘O’er thy wounded warriors’—”

“No, no, no... it’s all right... go on...”

“Well, I have to start over now.” She winked at him, then began again:

Ashla, sovereign brightness
of the highest reaches:
o’er thy wounded Garazeb
spread thy veil of healing.

Shulma paused and glanced down. Zeb’s eyes were closed; again he wore the tranquil face of sleep. Even Shai’s laughter was now silent.

From his marks of valor
cleanse the blood of struggle;
fill his limbs with vigor;
crown his might with rest.

To thee I commend him,
Ashla, light of warriors;
may his honor waken
to fight with strength renewed.

Her last notes trailed off into silence. Looking down, she saw Zeb’s eyes flicker open and gaze up at her in half awe, half stupor. She bent closer, letting her hair ever so lightly graze his cheek.

As they looked at each other for the next few quiet moments, she realized she was close enough to catch his scent. Beneath the sickly tang of the bacta and soap lurked something heady and woodsy, something of the ancient bristlecone forests...

Just then the silence was rent by a youthful shout from next door: “Kiss her, Zebby! Kiss her!”

Zeb’s dazed look morphed into a scowl, then brightened suddenly into a grin. “Suppose I shouldn’t disappoint the kit a second time.”

“You certainly shouldn’t.” I am yours, beloved warrior of Lasan!

Slowly, tentatively, he put up a hand to draw her close. She leaned down into his embrace, inhaling his scent; the pinelike musk had now fully triumphed over the tawdry, tangy bacta. Her hair cascaded over his face, caressing the midnight fringe of his beard. Closer, closer...

And when their lips touched, the electric sweetness that shot through Shulma was like the most vivid of her visions, the most ecstatic of her trances. Oh, that your kiss were one of my rituals…!

It was only after she had sunk back into the chair that she realized how fast her heart was beating. Zeb seemed similarly spent; his eyes were closed again. After taking a deep breath, Shulma collected her satchel and rose to go, then traced the Triangle once more on Zeb’s shoulder. His eyes opened and he took her hand in his.

“So... um… Shulma…”

“Yes?”

“Day after tomorrow… about this time... cider? Whaddaya say?”

“I say yes.” What else could I possibly say?

“Or maybe even tomorrow if I’m better...”

“I’m sure you’ll let me know.” She smiled and placed her other hand on his, again drawing her fingers over the purple knuckle-stripe. “Now rest well, Zeb. The Ashla will watch over you.”

“You too, Shulma... and... thanks.”

“Always.”

He shifted and nestled back into bed. After one final, wistful glance, Shulma exited the cubicle. She could hear Shai’s laughter again as she crossed to his side of the room. The younger male’s grin shifted to a look of concern as she approached, but his face softened again as she smiled at him and placed a small kiss on his tousled head.

“Hey, Zebby, she kissed me too!” she heard Shai exclaim as she left the room—and she beamed inwardly as her ears caught Zeb’s smugly chuckled reply: “Not like she kissed me, kid.”

Then, with brightness in her heart and a spring in her step, Shulma left the infirmary and went out into the clear Lasan sun.

* * *

The next day, in that same clear Lasan sun, Shulma stood outside the security post of the Honor Guard base, waiting. She spun around and smiled as Zeb came up beside her—now fully recovered, crisp and spruce in his uniform vest and armor, and smiling a smile that drowned out the sun.

Then they walked off together toward town. ¶

Spoiler: Notes

On Storms’ End and its associated celebrations, see the Lasat fanon article by Raissa and myself. Raissa is the creator of that particular aspect of the fanon, and all the events about which Shulma reminisces take place in Raissa’s The Beginning of Honor.

Shulma’s chalked glyphs are drawn (!) from the chalked markings made by Chava on the floor of the Ghost in the Rebels episode “Legends of the Lasat,” as part of the Lira San ritual. I see such markings as being a fairly standard feature of Lasat shamanism and part of almost all of its rituals, with shamans like Shulma and Chava keeping some of that chalk with them at all times.

“some other cadet with a huge, bushy beard”: One of Raissa’s supporting OCs, Velibor, a fellow cadet of Zeb’s who convinces him to climb the Warrior in The Beginning of Honor.

Shulma’s friends Rishla and Yhazi are my OCs. Raissa’s story mentioned the lieutenant who had climbed higher than anyone else and who had three girls trailing him back to town; that one of them was Yhazi was my own extrapolation, made with her permission, of course.

“the mode of the ancients”: A reference to the unusual bo-rifle configuration used by Zeb in “Legends of the Lasat” as part of the Lira San ritual (“as the ancients used it”).

The Consecration of the Valorous Wounded and the Wartime Rite are fanon; the proper name and pronouns in the prayer can of course be altered as needed.

Zeb’s scent: Much is made in Rebels of how bad he smells, at least to Ezra. But might not a member of his own species might think differently—especially one who is in love with him?

 

Many thanks to you all for reading and commenting, as well as for taking a chance on my first attempt at mushy romance type writing!

Aw, thank you so, so much, Ny! If I made you squee that much, then I know I didn’t do too bad. I'm finding these two very enjoyable to write (and I have more stories with them in the offing); for some reason I find myself drawn to that gently, adorably awkward dynamic that in its way is so full of sincerity. And wow, what an honor to have these compared to K'Tai and Obi-Wan, whom I've always regarded as an absolute model for EC/OC relationship!

As to their meeting up again, during the Rebels time period...

Spoiler

...ah ha, just you wait.

Oh, thank you so much, and I am so glad you're enjoying this still relatively new character so far. But I really and truly couldn't have done it without you and BOH; thank you for all you did to set up the situation that made this story possible, and for all the encouragement you've given me into these early mush attempts of mine—anytime I'm not sure what to do when writing a romance story, I look to yours. <3

Aw, I'm so glad you like this relatively new character of mine! I'm liking her quite a bit too. You're 100% spot-on here about all those little tensions she's experiencing here about expressing her attraction to Zeb. And yes, at the same time, her spiritual commitment in no way a "front," whatever that secretary may think. In a way, as you note further on, the spiritual aspect becomes one of the main catalysts for the burgeoning attraction between these two. Those brief moments of tender contact, like that one little touch to Zeb's hand, can be so full of sweetness, especially (but not only) in the very early of a romance. (And notice that the possibility of a kiss crosses Shulma's mind even now—just the possibility, of course. )

These two are very conscientious, principled late teens—but they’re still late teens and therefore prone to the awkwardness that goes with that age. The draw that they feel toward each other is something new to them both, and both of them are feeling a mix of (a) enjoying the new feeling while (b) trying to make sense of it as best they know how. Which of course is going to lead to some hesitancy here and there, and which is naturally going to be very amusing to any Certain Kits who may be listening! And I thank you once again so much for letting me borrow this one—he’s so delightful—indeed, I have to credit you more than a little for this scene, as I believe you were the one who originally suggested having Shai listen in. (He wouldn’t want to miss it, of course!)

And of course anything to get pretty Shulma to stay! Though of course she wasn’t really that determined to leave anyway, really. And she does indeed mean every word she chants from the Consecration of the Valorous Wounded; sure, it’s the type of prayer in which one can swap out pronuns, etc. as needed, but in that moment, to her, it was written just for him, just for his situation.

Here, too, I am indebted to your advice when I was first working on this—I’m learning from the best in this whole romance business, you see! Naturally both of them are only going through with this whole kiss thing JUST to please Shai, of course, not because they actually want to or anything, riiiiight? This was one of my first attempts at writing a kiss scene, so I am glad that it came off well. The blending of the romantic and the transcendent is something that’s always fascinated me from a writer’s standpoint, and it’s going to be by way of a recurring theme for Shulma in particular in her perception of her relationship to Zeb.

Oh, thank you so much! That’s such a lovely compliment to a first-time romance writer; I appreciate that immensely, and am so glad you like these two. But ultimately it’s your encouragement and support that’s made them possible, and for that I can’t thank you enough. I definitely have more in the works with them, so keep watching this space!

Thank you so much for your kind words; I’m so glad you are enjoying Shulma so far. Yes, she is of course just as smitten with Zeb as he is with her—but of course Late Teen Awkwardness has been preventing both of them from saying that to each other outright. And once again, her romantic attraction and her respect for his courage and compassion spill into each other, to the point where they become almost the same thing.

Who wouldn’t, indeed? How could an image like that not make an impression?

Oh, he is loving every single moment! Because Zebby is so hilarious when he’s feeling shy and awkward!

Ah ha, I figured that you might pick up on the Southwestern-influenced flora! Raissa was the one who came up with most of our fanon around the landscape of Lasan, and she based much of it on Bryce Canyon, but I remember coming across a few bristlecone pines on my Colorado trip this past summer too; they’re very impressive trees. And apropos their enduring nature: Shulma’s comparison is prophetic, in a way—because Zeb, as one of the survivors of the Siege of Lasan, will quite literally endure much longer than any of those other young fellows who went climbing that Storms’ End.

Thanks so much; I’m so glad you liked the kiss scene, because I went through a fair bit of angsting to the effect of, “but but but is it too corny/kitschy/early/saccharine?” And that’s spot on about what I have in mind for these two: they share very important commonalities deep down, even though are from different walks of life and have quite different personalities. I’ve always been drawn to “mismatched friendship” dynamics between characters, and I’ve really been loving this chance to translate that into the realm of romance.

Oh, thank you so much! I am so glad you like how these two turned out. When you say that a romance is a natural one, it’s a huge compliment, because you are such an ace at writing romances that are natural and in character, and I consider myself to be learning from you on that score. That’s pretty much how I’ve long viewed Zeb’s personality too; a lot of his tough-guy persona seems to be a response to the Empire’s near-destruction of his homeworld, but even in Rebels one can see there are many layers lurking beneath, most notably a genuinely good heart. As to surfacing later… well, to that I say ""!

Glad you like her so far! Yes, she does have some similarities to Telfien and Glockel, partly by design; she too inhabits kind of a slightly rarefied spiritual world (which is quite different from the more physical, military world inhabited by Zeb), and that is perhaps part of what gives her a bit of a nerdy aspect. You’ll see more of her shamanic learning, abilities, and rituals in future stories. She is indeed learning from the best; her teacher is actually an established character, and I’ll definitely put her in future stories too.

Awww, thanks!one1! These two are certainly the sweetest purple giants I know.

I like that interpretation of this scene! When I was first writing this I felt that the beautiful young woman walking through all the post-storm debris made for a striking image; though I hadn’t thought about it in quite that way before, but it definitely works. She braves all the messiness and pain (Lasat don’t wear shoes, of course) to visit the young soldier whom she hopes will become her beloved. And it becomes the first gesture of her love for him, even though neither of them knows that yet.

Yeah, you do that!

Oh yeah, that she is. She might as well be wearing a huge sign on her forehead reading “SMITTEN PITTIN!1!1!"

A vague idea, yes, though I’m still fleshing things out re the Lasat shaman rituals. Don’t worry, though: of course there will be more, and of course I’ll fill you in once I’ve established more in the way of details.

Oh, I have to say here and now that I am a huge sucker for the whole thing of describing little details of the beloved, especially while sleeping. And you nailed what I was getting at here: as she’s surveying him, his physical charms become emblematic of the honor and compassion he showed on that fateful Storms’ End (cf. what she says about his hands). Which of course is what’s behind the very title of this story.

Yep, that clever kit has got them figured out pretty much from moment one—he’s no dummy! That’s pretty much exactly what his role is; Zeb and Shulma don’t realize it at first, but it’s not long before they do, of course.

Oh, this, for sure! She’s totally sincere about her prayer, of course, but he’s mostly interested in the “pretty girl stay by me and sing to me in your pretty voice” side of things. And I think she can tell that that’s the case, to a certain extent.

Wow, I know I didn’t do too bad if I not only (a) gave you butterflies for purple beasts (who, again, are some of the sweetest purple beasts out there), but also (b) made you squeal.

Oh, thank you! I am tickled pink to know this first kiss scene of mine (by which I mean the first scene I’ve publicly posted to involve a kiss though it also is a “first kiss” scene ) came off well to you. Yes, the Ashla is sparkling between the two of them indeed in this moment; see above about how the spiritual and the romantic spill into each other here, and how that will be a continuing theme in stories of this couple.

I am (we are) keeping it under strong consideration.

Wow, now I really know I did good! That’s a truly amazing compliment—one of the biggest, really, given all the difficulties and troubles that I know plagued you during that time. I am just so thrilled that this little story of mine could play some small role in helping and healing you. Thanks so, so much.

And once again, a big thank you to all of you for your comments and support! Keep watching this space; more there will certainly be.

 

Oh, this is so, so incredibly sweet—and at the same time so incredibly them! All possible purple squees! I turned to a complete goo puddle when you first showed me this, and I have done so every time I’ve read it since (which has been many times… are you surprised? ). You just did such a wonderful job here with this little OC of mine and with this couple—just beautiful work here, and I am so glad this is part of the series.

Ah, where even to start… Zeb’s attempts at This Whole Love Letter thing are so cute. There’s something really endearing in the whole image of such a “tough guy” character striving his utmost to do something as tender and affectionate as writing a love letter; one can fairly hear the gears churning inside that stripey purple head as he tries to come up with Just The Right Words. And it takes him some doing, but he manages to stumble on a tried and true technique: list all the things that you think are beautiful about her! Hey, it worked for King Solomon (and whatever other authors contributed to the Song of Songs)! I have to say, the way you worked in the semi-infamous “hair like a flock of goats” quote (yes, people, that is an honest-to-goodness biblical citation!) is just priceless; it even fits right in with the landscape and fauna of Lasan that you detailed in our fanon post and described so wonderfully in The Beginning of Honor. (As does all the imagery in his letter—so priceless!) Also I love the way Zeb thinks it over: wait, that doesn’t sound right. Wait, maybe it does. I’ll come back to it. Of course, the question of whether he does or doesn’t come back to it later is tantalizingly unanswered—but as we see, it turned out to be just the right thing, and it did indeed (like everything in his letter) come straight from his heart. And that right there makes him romantic enough to marry himself!

Zeb is extra adorable in those moments where he sinks into little amorous daydreams of Shulma's long, dark hair and rippling stripes. He’s clearly experiencing just that tiniest little hint of desire, and it’s worrying him just a tiny little bit, because he doesn’t want to be like that bantha-chopped Don Juan wannabe Velibor, after all. But that big purple darling doesn’t need to worry—he is on a totally different level from Velibor, and his feelings are 100% natural. I know we've talked before about how difficult it can be to get the balance right when writing about such things, especially with male characters, and you are acing it here. Zeb's feelings in these moments are portrayed so sweetly, and they are totally believable for him at this age and this stage of the relationship.

And then who should show up but the Peskiest Kit Brother on Lasan! Shai is absolutely adorable, as always, and of course he adores his big bro so much that he just has to help him out in his quest for love. Once again, he is the catalyst, the one who's not afraid to put out in the open the feelings that Zebby's still self-conscious about. He immediately guesses what Zeb is writing even when Zeb covers up the paper, and of course Zeb wouldn't have gotten so defensive about Shai's "I want to kiss you a lot" comment if it hadn't been perfectly true! Of course we know that Zeb's words all came from the heart and he didn't really need any help with them—but like @WarmNyota_SweetAyesha says, it's Shai's note that provides the impetus for both Zeb and Shulma to indulge in a sweet moment they both longed for but were too shy to ask for.

When the story switches to Shulma's point of view, I love how the tone switches too; this part is so her the way the opening scene was so him. I have no doubt that she took that letter upstairs to her room, kissed it, cuddled it, inhaled the piney scent clinging to it, etc., the first chance she got. And naturally someone of her learning and sensibilities immediately knows the significance of the stone Shai threw in. Good choice by him, too, since "new love" and "purity" are perfect for these two right about now.

And it all culminates in their beautiful stroll together through the Royal Display Gardens. (Hey, I recognize all these locations—her house and little attic room in Flowstone Vale, too!) Once again, both of them are so them. There's Zeb with his several rapid-fire emotional transitions, with at least one karabast for each. And Shulma clearly has a plan here: I just love love love all the details of her gestures, the way she holds his hands, pulls him down next to her on that bench, unclenches his fists so gently (he needs someone to do that for him from time to time, doesn't he?), leans toward him... and all those images from his letter come to life in that moment of closeness. And their kiss—so, so sweet—I melt everytime, and that's no exaggeration.

I love that you added the full text of Zeb's letter; what a wonderful bit of "bonus content"! Once again, all those images fit perfectly with the fanon landscape you devised as part of our Lasan fanon; of course he's going to write about what he knows, isn't he! (I'm reminded of Luke's tendency toward Tatooine and desert imagery in Teenage Rebellion). And how cool is it that you worked in a little bonus story of sorts about that sweetly awkward first date (or at least early date) of theirs; even just Zeb's terse account of it speaks volumes.

Thanks again for this wonderful, beautiful story—what a gorgeous addition to this series and this universe! How I love these two.

P.S. Shulma asked me to pass this on, and I simply couldn’t refuse:

Spoiler: Shulma’s Letter

O dearest, sweetest Garazeb!

I think every day of our beautiful walk at the Royal Display Gardens last week... how I strolled with you through the groves of arboray trees, leaning on your strong arm... how we sat together on the bench beneath the seerflower arbor... even how your fists clenched up in that moment of anger, and how you let me unwrap them. And we kissed as the seerflowers sent out their perfume; and yours, my mighty bristlecone, flowed forth too.

It still clings to your lovely letter of last week, which I still treasure with all my heart. Oh, how nervous you were when I mentioned it! I saw the unease in your eyes, I felt the Ashla tremble around you. But do not fear, dearest Zeb. How could I not cherish each and every one of the words that came straight from the good, honorable, loving heart of my warrior?

Let it not be too long, my soldier-love, before I see your leaf-green eyes smiling down at me again. I long to rest my head on your broad shoulder, to melt into your rugged embrace, to feel the brush of your beard as I press my lips to yours. Or, to paraphrase that dear kit brother of yours (and please give him my greetings): I would like to kiss you again, definitely a lot.

All you have to do, darling, is say when.

As ever,
with all my love,
your very own Shulma

 

Well, karabast, thank you, @WarmNyota_SweetAyesha. I do try. As a shaman of Lasan, Shulma has extensive experience with ancient texts written in a lofty, poetic register—so it only stands to reason that she would draw on that experience in writing something as important as a letter to her beloved Zeb. All I can say is, though, he had better not let Shai see this—or he'll never hear the end of it!

* * *​

While I'm here, I'd like to express my gratitude for the two nominations received by “Sleeping Honor” in the 2018 Fanfic Awards:

• Best Romance
• Best Original Relationship (Shulma Trilasha and Zeb Orrelios)

I was so tickled pink (or I guess in this case purple) to see this little story, and this little pairing, appreciated in this way—this really made my day. Thank you wonderful folks so, so much!

 

YKYAFFW when this...

...inspires the following mini-story...

​

Author: Findswoman
Title: Letter Perfect; or, The Letter under Zebby’s Pillow
Era: Saga—PT (about 25 BBY)
Characters: Garazeb “Zeb” Orrelios, Garashai “Shai” Orrelios (@Raissa Baiard ’s OC), Herleva Orrelios (Raissa Baiard’s OC); mention of Shulma Trilasha (my OC)
Genre: Vignette: family, a little humor, a hint of romance
Summary: Zeb’s little brother has been reading his private correspondence…
Notes: Part of the Lasan Series, by Raissa Baiard and myself. Many thanks to Raissa for looking this over before posting, and especially for letting me borrow two of the wonderful family members she has devised for Rebels’s honorable Lasat.

​

Zeb slung his duffel down in the front hall of his family home. No one seemed to be there. Well, Pa was still going to be at work at this hour, Ma had probably just gone out for a bit, and Priska was still deployed up north at Honor Guard Station Yabsh (and of course Zefora and Signi had had their own places for a while now). But Zeb thought that at least Shai would be there to greet him as he came home from the Royal Lasat Military Academy for spring holiday leave. He looked around and listened.

Then he heard it: laughter. Youthful laughter. Exuberant youthful laughter over something unbearably hilarious.

Shai’s laughter.

As quickly as he could Zeb stomped upstairs to the room he shared with his kit brother. The door was closed, but the laughter continued to filter from behind it. Zeb knocked.

“Shai? That you?”

The door swung open to reveal a tousle-headed teenage kit with a broad, mischievous grin on his face. “Oh, hi, Zebby,” he said. “Or, wait, maybe I should say”—and here he threw his arms around Zeb in an exaggerated hug—“O dearest, sweetest Garazeb!”

Zeb pulled free and fixed his brother with a quizzical scowl. This sounded suspicious. “What the actual Bogan are you talking about, Shai?!”

“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know, my mighty bristlecone!” Again he threw his arms around his brother and continued in a high-pitched, singsong voice. “Oh, let me rest my head on your broad shoulder! Let me melt into your rugged embrace! Let me feel your beard brush my face as I press my lips to yours! Mwah mwah mwah mwah mwah!”

“Aw karabast…” Horror paled Zeb’s face as he pulled free again. He recognized those words from Shulma’s most recent letter to him. It was now only too obvious what had happened. “How’d you—where’d you—”

“I have it right he-ere!” Shai pulled a folded piece of light pink deckled flimsi from his inner jacket pocket and waved it teasingly in his brother’s face.

“Give that back! NOW!”

Zeb tried to snatch the flimsi back, but Shai quickly pocketed it again. “Nope, gotta catch me!” he taunted, and took off down the hall, giggling mischievously.

“GET BACK HERE, Y’LITTLE—!” Zeb shouted as he chased his little brother down the hallway, down another hallway, down the stairs, through the parlor, zigzagging perilously around the furniture. Zeb almost grabbed Shai as the kit ran into a footstool and knocked it over, but Shai jumped out of the way just in time. The kit made a mad dash for the front hall—and at the exact moment that his older brother faceplanted over the fallen stool, he slammed headlong into the figure that had just entered the front door.

Their mother. The one, the only Herleva Orrelios, retired captain of the Lasan High Honor Guard, matriarch par excellence, fierce protector of her family, force of nature.

“WHAT DO YOU BOYS THINK YOU’RE DOING?!” bellowed the voice that had once struck fear into a generation of Guards.

Her two sons thrust simultaneous, accusatory fingers at each other. “He started it!”

“Okay, you two. You can let go now, Garashai.” She pried her younger son from her person, then nudged his older brother with her foot. “Garazeb, get off the floor. You look ridiculous. And watch your language!” she added in response to her older son’s muttered “karabast” as he pulled himself up, massaging his cheeks and nose. “Now someone tell me what’s going on here.”

Zeb spoke first. “He stole a letter from my—from—from me. And he needs to give it back.”

“I didn’t steal it! I was just makin’ the beds up in the room and it—it just—slipped out from under Zebby’s pillow!”

“YEAH, SURE IT DID!”

“No, really, I swear!”

Herleva raised one brow ridge inquiringly. “Letter, eh?”

“Yeah,” came Shai’s reply.

“Under his pillow?”

“Um, yeah.”

She extended her hand. “Give it here, Shai.”

Shai began to reach into this pocket, but Zeb gave a sigh of exasperation. “Aw kara—aw, Ma! Really?”

“Yes, really. I want to see the letter that slipped out from under Zebby’s pillow.”

Shai stuck his tongue out at his fuming brother, then handed the pink deckled flimsi to his mother. She took it and begin to read. At first her eyes widened, and she drew in a sharp breath of astonishment, but gradually her features softened into one of her elusive smiles.

“Mmm, that’s heady stuff.” She winked at Zeb, whose face had turned a deeper shade of purple, and gave him a thump on the back. “‘Dearest, sweetest Garazeb,’ eh?”

Zeb buried his face in one hand and sighed. “Ma, c’mon, please…”

“And you’re her ‘mighty bristlecone,’ are you?” She thumped Zeb again, whose face remained buried in his hand. “She’s got it bad for my boy, that’s for sure!”

“Ma…”

“Awww,” Shai chimed in in a teasing singsong. “Just lookit the mighty warrior of the High Honor Guard getting all blushy over a gi-irl!”

“SHUT IT, SHAI!”

Herleva simply shrugged. “Hey, it happens. Now come here.” She gestured to them commandingly. “I want to show you boys something.”

The boys had no choice but to follow her through the parlor, dining room, and kitchen to their father’s study, a small, cluttered office alcove at the back of the house. For several moments she rummaged through the pigeonholes of the huge, crammed rolltop desk that stood there. Finally she pulled out a yellowing sheet of noteflimsi, printed with a pattern of bright pink mazna flowers and covered with florid, exaggerated adolescent handwriting. “Ah, here it is.” She cleared her throat and read aloud:

“‘Nerezeb! Darling! It was so sweet of you to take me out to Teepp’s Teahouse last week! And I loved our walk on the lakeshore afterward! The salt spray, the waves… and all those watergulls flying around… weren’t they so beautiful? It’s like they were there just for us! I just wish they hadn’t messed on your head during our kiss!’”

“Aw, Ma, EEEEWWWW!”

“Shai, let ’er finish.”

Herleva simply continued. “‘But otherwise, it was SO SWEET and I really hope we can do it again! (Kiss, I mean, not get messed on by watergulls.)’” Shai rolled his eyes and tutted, but Herleva once again ignored him. “‘Let me know as soon as you can when we can go out again, because I miss you SO MUCH! All my love and kisses, Leva.’” She folded the letter again and looked at her sons. “Now what do you boys think of that?”

Zeb bit his lip and glanced over at Shai, whose attention seemed to have been suddenly captured by a random spot on the floor. It was profoundly odd for him to imagine their mother—the formidable military commander turned equally formidable matriarch—as a lovestruck young girl known as “Leva,” going all mushy over memories of lakeshore walks and kisses. And yet, if he was to believe what he’d just heard, that is exactly what she had been those many years ago. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.

“It’s… really… something,” he managed at last.

“Erm… yeah,” added Shai in a barely audible voice, his eyes still down at the floor.

“Here, you two.” Herleva put her arms around both her boys’ shoulders and led them gently over to the settee in the parlor, where she motioned to them to sit on either side of her. “Let me tell you some things. First you, Garashai.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “All this blushy-mushy stuff you’ve been giving your brother such a hard time about? Guess what. It happens to everyone. One hundred percent of beings on Lasan. Me, your father, your brother, and someday you too, just you watch. The time will come when you’ll get all doe-eyed over sappy love notes, too.”

“Yeah, sure, Ma,” muttered Shai, turning away.

“Oh, just wait and see! And you’ll just have to hope Garazeb doesn’t find any of yours, heh heh!” She ruffled his hair playfully; he smoothed it back out with a grumble. Then she turned to her older son.

“And you, Garazeb. Don’t feel so embarrassed, for the Ashla’s sake! For one thing, your girl’s a much better writer than I was.” She laughed, then put a reassuring arm around Zeb. “But for another thing… your feelings are nothing to be ashamed of. Remember what it says in the story of Rolmvar the Rugged and Radiant Lalma?”

Zeb nodded as he recalled the familiar fairy tale. “‘The strongest warrior has the tenderest heart’?”

Herleva smiled. “That’s right. Could have been written about my boy, as far as I’m concerned. Now, I bet you’ll want this back.”

She handed him the pink deckled letter. He immediately and carefully smoothed it out; it had gotten just a touch wrinkled in the tussle with Shai (but fortunately not torn, because if it had been, there would be consequences). Then he slid it into the breast pocket of his uniform vest.

“And just as a friendly tip,” his mother added, “you might want to find another place to keep this. Somewhere out of reach of prying kit brothers.”

Zeb smiled. His face still felt a bit warm—but hey, that happened sometimes, right? “Thanks, Ma.”

* * *​

Indeed, after spring holiday leave ended and he returned to the Military Academy, Zeb placed Shulma’s letter very carefully into an empty compartment at the top of his gear locker, right beside the compartment with his bracers and shoulder armor. Every morning, as he came to his locker to suit up, Zeb would run the pads of his fingers over the soft, linenlike surface of the flimsi. Whenever he did, he would stop and reflect for a bit—not only on the sweet words of the one who had sent the letter, but also on the tenderness of his own warrior’s heart. ¶

Spoiler: Notes

Nerezeb (Zeb and Shai’s father) and Priska, Zefora, and Signi (Zeb and Shai’s older sisters) are also the creations of Raissa Baiard and were introduced in The Beginning of Honor. Once again, many thanks to her for letting me bring them in.

Honor Guard Station Yabsh: Per our Lasat fanon post, the saltwater Lake Yabsh is Lasan’s largest single body of water. My thought is that this base is located on or near its northernmost shore, almost directly opposite the capital city of Lira Zel.

Teepp’s Teahouse: Fanon, named (not very cleverly) after the San Francisco-based Peet’s Coffee, whose frappé-type drinks I used to enjoy quite a bit in my California days.

Rolmvar the Rugged and Radiant Lalma: Fanon.

Finally, one more thank-you to Raissa: once again for letting me borrow the delightful Shai and the redoubtable Herleva, and for helping me when I was stuck on Herleva’s motherly advice to her boys. Herleva’s dialogue at that point in the story basically follows Raissa’s suggestions exactly.

 

Thank you all for reading and for your wonderful comments. For these responses, I’m going to take the topical approach, which means I’ll be taking parts of individual comments out of order, which I hope is all right:

Herleva

Thank you all! Oh, I love Herleva too. I’ve adored her ever since @Raissa Baiard first introduced her—she really is the perfect mom for both Zeb and Shai, and the source of so many of their good qualities. Just having the opportunity to write her here was pleasure enough, but the chance to sketch a bit of her "life before kids” was even more so. Yep, even that indomitable warrior-matriarch was not immune to those tender passions (nor to flowered notepaper and LOTS OF EXCLAMATION POINTS!1)—no one is immune, it’s true! And even now Captain Mom still has that tenderness within her, saving it up in her heart for the right moment when her kits need it (and they’ll never stop being her kits, even as they grow up into mighty warriors). As EP put it so eloquently:

Can only second this. Not mutually exclusive in the least!

Shai

I love Shai, too, and was just as tickled purple (!) to have the opportunity to write him—he’s such a fun, mischievous little rascal, and makes such a wonderful foil to his “mighty bristlecone” of a brother. You’re right, EP, he has a lot in common with Ebe (whom I also love), and if Shai and Ebe weren’t from totally different eras and totally different ends of the galaxy, I bet they’d be great pals, and very adept at cooking up rascally trouble together! It was so much fun writing him teasing Zebby with all the exaggerated hugs and all those “mwah mwah mwahs” and leading him in that madcap chase all over the house (a new kind of writing for me)! It is indeed all part of making sense of all this GIRLS business; I imagine that Shai very well might have expected his mother would join him in teasing Zeb, which she does, just for a bit—but then she turns it all around and shows that side of herself that Shai probably never guessed she had. Which ends up being about as overwhelming to him as the notion of his Mighty Soldier Brother kissing a girl “probably a lot”! Yes, I agree that he must be hiding all sorts of wacky stuff in his half of the room—that he had better not let either Zebby or Captain Mom come across! And indeed, as we see, Zeb learned his own space!bro teasing technique from the best. (Hey, another pair of characters who could really have hit it off if they weren’t from two completely different parts of the timeline!)

Thank you all once again! I am so glad you are enjoying these little purple tales, and I have been having a blast writing them.

 

Author: Findswoman
Title: “I am my prayer to you”
Era: Saga–PT, pre-Rebels; two dust seasons after the events of The Sad, Sad Story of Porfozald Marballees! (about 22–23 BBY)
Characters: a younger Zeb Orrelios, Shulma Trilasha (OC)
Genre: Romantic vignette, mush
Summary: Zeb accompanies Shulma on a pilgrimage to her favorite holy site.
Notes: Part of the Lasan Series, and another postscript to The Sad, Sad Story of Porfozald Marballees!, again in an attempt to make things up to Shulma after her unpleasant experience in that story. Many thanks, as always, to @Raissa Baiard for much-appreciated beta-reading and feedback, and for helping me overcome a serious case of long-wait-to-post-itis.

---

The evening was chill as Zeb paced in the courtyard outside the tomb-shrine of Osthi the Storm-Dreamer, nestled in the northern mountain hamlet of Feldspar Falls. He felt bare, vulnerable, and a bit cold in his uniform vest and breeches without the customary armor. The caretaker of the men’s pilgrimage house, a gaunt, bespectacled Lasat shaman with sparse white sideburns, had brought him here a few minutes ago, and had instructed him beforehand to leave his armor, his bo-rifle, and his utility knife behind before approaching the tomb.

At least Shulma would be joining him soon. Zeb was on leave from his first tour of duty with the Honor Guard, and she had prevailed upon him to spend a few days of that leave to join her on a brief pilgrimage to Osthi’s tomb. Now that Shulma had been promoted from an initiate to the second shamanic degree, she was authorized to go on pilgrimages of her own, as long as they did not interfere with her continuing studies. And of course—Zeb chuckled to himself as he remembered—she (and her fellow shamans) had carefully reassured her parents and brothers that there were caretakers and other pilgrims around and that nothing untoward would happen between her and the young soldier she loved.

Zeb had never been to a holy site like this before. He had been inside the Royal Academy of Shamans on Mount Straga a few times, but only to the wing with the study chambers—never to the inner shrines where the rituals were performed—and most of the time when he came to walk Shulma home, he simply met her at the funicular station at the mountain’s base. A few times Shulma had tried to explain to him the arcane writings and ancient prophecies she was studying, and he had found it all more confusing than anything else. But he knew that this Osthi, whoever else she had been, was a by way of a role model to his love, and that Shulma had long wanted to return to this holy site. Zeb remembered what she had told him about her first visit to the prophetess’s tomb, how what should have been a tranquil, uplifting retreat experience had been all but ruined by the objectionable advances of that Porfozald Marballees character. That sleemo, harassing her that way! Even now the very thought made Zeb gnash his teeth and snarl. But he had taken care of matters, oh yes he had…!

And now that she was here again, this time with him by her side—he resolved, on his honor as a Guardsman, that this would be the beautiful pilgrimage his beloved so richly deserved.

“Hello, Zeblove.”

Zeb turned to see Shulma’s scarlet-cloaked form come rustling up beside him. The moonlight glinted in her stone-green eyes, on the shamanic ring-medallion in her hair, and on her hair itself—that glorious, flowing, purple-black hair. Karabast, she was lovely...

“Hey there, darlin’.” He took her hand and kissed it.

“So, this is the place.” She gestured around with one hand. “What do you think so far? First impressions?”

“Well, erm... it’s...” Zeb glanced around at the low, squat, tile-roofed buildings surrounding the central courtyard: the men’s pilgrimage house, the refectory, the women’s pilgrimage house, the library—then at the shrine before them, with its high arched roof and the colored-glass window set into its front like a gem—and beyond it at the tranquil darkness of the lake. All very pretty, but he knew what he thought was the most beautiful thing there....

“It’s... er... very nice,” he said at last.

“Has Shaman Vossplath been treating you well?”

“You mean the ol’ white-bearded fellow back in the men’s house?”

“Yes.”

Zeb shrugged. “Seems all right. Always squintin’ at me funny, though.”

“Oh, he squints at everyone.”

“While I’m at the washstand trimmin’ my beard?!”

“You’re probably the first Guardsman he’s seen here in a while. His wife is on duty in the women’s house and has been doing nothing but asking me questions about you.”

“Aw, great,” Zeb rejoined with a sigh and a roll of his eyes.

“All good things, I promise.” Shulma stroked his upper arm. “Even so, I get the feeling that it is not common for members of the Lasan High Honor Guard to make pilgrimages to tombs of ancient female mystics.”

“Yeah, that’s right, I guess. Not unless we’re dragged here by our own female mystics,” he chuckled, edging closer and tracing one of her cheek-stripes.

“You raised no objection.” She smiled and ruffled one of his sideburns. “So, shall we, my love?”

“Yeah, sure.”

She looped her arm through his, and they walked together into the shrine.

* * *​

“And here we are,” Shulma smiled.

Zeb glanced around, taking in the stark beauty of the tomb chamber: the flat stone walls, the flickering glow of the lightning torches in the corners of the room, the recumbent sculpture of the prophetess with the Ashla’s blade piercing her heart, and the bursts of jewel-like color from the four windows, one set into each wall. The windows intrigued him. On three of them, the ones with the blue, green, and yellow backgrounds, he could discern the images of the Warrior, the Child, and the Fool—familiar, storied figures known to every Lasat kit. But he wasn’t sure about the fourth window, the red one at the far end of the room, which showed a female shaman gesturing to a book that she held open before her. Was it a portrait of Osthi herself? Whoever it was seemed to be staring straight at him, straight through him. He became aware of how nervous he was and how out of place he felt.

“Right, er, so I guess I’ll just stay here while you, er, pray or whatever you’re gonna do,” he managed at last, shuffling his feet in the entrance alcove.

“Oh, no! You don’t have to do that!” Shulma tugged his hand pleadingly. “Won’t you come? Please?”

“Aw kara—”

“Please, not here, Zeblove!”

“Sorry, sorry… but darlin’, I just…” He trailed off with a sigh.

“Just what?”

“I—I don’t know what I’m supposed to do… I’m just a simple Lasat... I don’t know any, er, prayers or chants or any o’ that sorta thing.”

“It’s all right, love. You don’t need to. Your very presence is a prayer.” She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Just stay beside me. I know you can do that, can’t you?”

“Aw, when you put it like that…” He squeezed her hand back, and let her lead him toward the center of the room. There, she took a piece of chalk from her pocket and began to draw a semicircular pattern of glyphs on the floor: a chain of flamelike or petallike shapes that began and ended on the same side of the sarcophagus. She stepped inside it and motioned to Zeb to do the same.

“Right, so, er, now what?” he asked.

“I told you, love. Just be here.”

“If you say so.” Zeb watched as Shulma approached the statue and placed her hands on one of its hands—the one encircling the piercing blade. She closed her eyes and began to breathe rhythmically, shallowly at first but then more and more deeply. Then, with one very deep, sighlike breath, she sank to her knees and rested her head on her forearm over the statue’s breast. Zeb immediately knelt beside her and placed his arm around her—

—and just as he did, she began to chant softly, arcane words in an ethereal undertone. Zeb started at first, but then smiled. He pressed her closer and interlaced his foot with hers.

For several minutes they stayed there together: Shulma leaning on the prophetess’s tomb, immersed in her chanted prayer; Zeb beside her, holding her and marveling at her and not knowing what to do. He could not enter the trance she had entered, for the Ashla did not fill him the way it filled her. He could not join in her chant; it was beyond his knowledge. So what could he do? What could he say? Anything?

Well, she had asked him to stay beside her, and he was doing that. And even if he didn’t know any of those fancy, shamanic prayers… still, maybe he could manage somethin’. ’Course, who knew if it would do any good—but it couldn’t hurt to try, right…?

He closed his eyes and thought very hard.

Er… um… hello, Ashla, if you’re there… Junior Lieutenant Garazeb Orrelios here, Third Honor Guard Division, Eighth Squadron… I guess, erm… well… see this absolutely amazing woman I’m holdin’? Yeah, well… thank you. For her. She just makes me so happy, and… and y’know, if you could please watch over her, keep her safe, that sort of thing. And don’t let any harm come to her, because if it does I’ll—

At that moment Zeb heard a rumble like distant thunder; he thought he felt the ground shake, too. Shulma shuddered against him but kept chanting. He clutched her tighter.

…er, sorry, Ashla, sorry. What I mean is… just, well, watch over her and… bless her, or whatever it is you do. Because I… I just love her so much… and I hope—I really, really hope someday she can be my bride… aw yeah, how awesome would that be… so yeah, er, thanks again, Ashla. Orrelios out.

Zeb paused, listened. All was calm again. The only sound was Shulma’s sweet voice, still chanting, as she nestled closer to him. He leaned over, gently nuzzling her, and planted a kiss in her hair.

And they stayed there, as the torches flickered, the light from the windows faded, and the shadows lengthened.

* * *​

Later, the stars gleamed down on them as they lingered together in the courtyard, hands clasped, green eyes fixed on green eyes.

“Thanks for coming here with me, Zeblove,” Shulma said at last.

“Aw, heh heh…” Zeb kissed her hand. “Anythin’ for you, darlin’.”

“It means so much to me. Especially since the first time…”

“I know, darlin’, I know. Least I could do for ya.” Zeb slid his arms around her and pressed her close. She nestled into his embrace.

“Oh, and Zeblove…”

“Yeah?”

Her next words were almost whispered. “May the Ashla grant your prayer.”

“Whoa, now, what?!” Zeb jumped, almost letting go of Shulma. “Prayer?! I mean—how’d you know I—I didn’t say anything—did I? Aw ka—I mean—how couldja possibly—”

“Don’t worry, dearest. I know. Because you are your prayer.” She edged closer. Zeb caught her sweet scent as her cheek brushed his beard. “And you are my prayer.”

“There you go talkin’ your mystic talk again…” His voice was husky as he drew her in. “Can’t we just kiss or somethin’?”

“A fine idea.”

Their lips joined in the starlit courtyard, in the shadow of Osthi’s tomb. Then Zeb walked back to the men’s pilgrimage house and Shulma to the women’s pilgrimage house, and all was quiet and dark once more. ¶

Spoiler: Notes

“I am my prayer to you”: The title is taken from a phrase in the Jewish liturgy: “Ve-ani tefilati lekha Adonai eit ratzon,” which is often rendered in prayerbooks as something along the lines of “and I have prayed to you, Lord, at this time of grace,” or “may my prayer to you, Lord, be at an acceptable time,” but which can be interpreted literally as “and I am my prayer to you, Lord, at an acceptable time.”

Osthi of Feldspar Falls and her tomb are fanon and are first introduced in The Sad, Sad Story of Porfozald Marballees!

The Warrior, the Child and the Fool are the three figures in the Prophecy of the Three, introduced in “Legends of the Lasat.”

Zeb’s rank, division, and squadron are all fanon; this is, of course, a while before he becomes captain of the Honor Guard.