Narmë Reddawn

Stream of Thoughts

Paperwork. Had she known that rank would come with so much paperwork, she would have hesitated a bit longer before accepting it.
She wasn't sure who she was kidding; certainly not herself, though the grumbling in the back of her mind eased the drudgery. The Hawks had been her charges before she put a new pin on her chest. They’d been hers since Yasmyr took a look at her and decided: “this is the one who will succeed me.” And she hadn’t protested.
She’d never have children of her own blood (though the small voice in her head reminded her that the San said “miraculous, unlikely and dangerous” not impossible. The small voice forgot sometimes what life they were living; when she looked at the man on her bed, she sometimes forgot it too for half formed thoughts of family, and wild dreams of building something), she somehow adopted instead a full escadrille of elves who want nothing less than to kill themselves in wild abandon.
The kid had called her ‘auntie’. She wasn't sure how much of it was a joke. She wasn't sure she wanted to know.

Still, paperwork. The demands of leave were easy enough to answer, though she wished to keep a paper trail, if only for herself (the answer was no, and that was coming from above her); her own notes about the Conclave (and wasn’t she glad she had not played that bingo? At least her notes were readable) were another matter entirely. She had nothing new about that murder at the end of the Conclave, and she was torn between leaving that to the Hoods and others whose job it was (not hers, never had been hers, but what was one more lie when she already pretend to have always been on the good side of the law?) and her own curiosity to get some answers. An Inquisitor murdered by Void magic just after a speech on it was no coincidence, and an interesting occasion; perhaps she could put her hand on Vilesun to get some news.

A mew on the side got her attention out of her work and towards the pair in her bed, a smile slipping unconsciously onto her lips. One can only appreciate the patience of one’s partner when they agree to stay just to keep one’s company while one works, which is exactly what Sarroch had done. (In her thoughts, he’s always Sarroch; Sul’enaroch is too solemn, and Sullen is a lie.)
The man lay on the bed, a book held barely over his nose and a black cat coiled under his other hand; Sebby, the culprit of that distracting mew, looking triumphantly towards the two panthers on the carpet with a pride borne of ownership. One of those days, she should tell Sarroch why the panthers never bother him much; neither of her girls wish to challenge Sebby’s claim on him.
She didn't know what he was reading - the cover titleless - but he frowned often. She would flog herself for not realising her own feelings sooner- when even his frown became endearing to her, and a smile of his made her heart miss a beat - if the view wasn’t so distracting in itself for the sheer appreciation of seeing him, and the calm of the scene. It felt right, and comfortable, and like her place. It felt like home.

Truly, she should have understood in their Pandarian travel, enough happened for that; be it that vision of him, red petal in so dark hair, turning to look at her (and she know that one would probably never leave her, she felt her heart in her throat at that moment and still she did not understand; he was simply beautiful) or the joy of making him laugh and smile. (“I’d very much like you to stay in my company. Always." And didn’t she wish for exactly that?)
Narmë placed down her pen and papers, relaxing in her chair as she admired the small domestic scene under her eye, and the pleasant feeling of belonging she never expected to have again.
The words escaped her, tumbling from her lips without a prior thought or consideration, and she didn’t try to take them back.
“I love you.”