Falling

Osthryn runs her fingers over the clasps and finishings a final time, admiring Martina’s stitchwork on the last-minute darts. Her long hair, still lying in a braid loosely over her shoulder, is one of two final components to her appearance. She takes the familiar lock and pins it around the crown of her head like Martina had advised, creating a halo. To complete her disguise, she slides the shimmering bronze elbow-length gloves, embroidered with floral designs at the edges in black thread to indicate her “widowhood", over her hands.

Osthryn looks up at the mirror – she can scarcely recognise herself. The neckline plunges well below what she is used to – granted, what she is used to doesn’t even reveal a collarbone, so this is nothing close to objectively risqué. Nonetheless, it is unfamiliar.

Though at first Osthryn showed some resistance to it, Martina insisted that the Dragonscale motifs along the neckline and down the front of the bodice were absolutely necessary if she did not want to stand out as stylistically incompetent. Silovar asked for some bronze in the outfit, but Martina had taken what was likely his true meaning. The gown was fully bronze from bodice to hem. Osthryn felt a strange uncanny familiarity at the shade – it was not nearly as deep as the bronze of her own scales.

Nonetheless, the bronze still brought the emerald of her eyes to the fore with striking brilliance. Osthryn stared at them for a moment in spite of herself, she was not sure she had ever seen them so green. Osthryn had helped Martina hand-trim the raised applique that constituted the Dragonscale pattern around the neckline and down the bodice front with black bias binding. The same treatment was given to the underside of the bodice where it met the overskirt.

It was customary in the North for widows to wear mourning colours for a time – and while black thread was rare, the common folk often found ways to darken a choice shawl by other means if they could not afford black fabric. The practices here in Mountainkeep, and if Martina were to be believed, the entire southern nation of Grosberg, were somewhat different. Widows did not have any designated mourning period. They would simply trim the edges of their clothing in some black motif - if it were embroidery or a strip of bias binding - and wear those trims until the end of their days or when they were remarried.

Martina found Osthryn’s description of the required mourning periods in Bettramon: high-mourning, half-mourning, and finally low-mourning, each lasting several months and with many associated requirements, to be arbitrary and restrictive.

“No no, this way is best, I feel. It marks the existence of the widow’s grief, but does not divulge such intimate details as when that widowhood began. It also preserves the social status that she had while she was married, without her ever needing to choose to marry again. A widow of two weeks and a widow of twenty years could not be distinguished from each other."

Osthryn has never before felt more than a passing interest in how human beings conducted their relationships and family lives. That, and religion, was some of the aspects of human existence that only now started to become interesting to her in a comparison between North and South. Silovar’s commentary about how his elders thought of humans as far below them intrigued her too.

Osthryn embedded herself into human society in a vain attempt to stay safe as the elder dragons did. Silovar, on the other hand, embedded himself into human society as an outlet for his curiosity and in defiance of his elders’ attitude toward humans. She wonders if his involvement as a human Court Mage is one of the many things his fellow Southern Dragons would deem terribly far below their station.

With a final survey of the image she cuts, and allowing herself to admire the well-fitted bronze gown, she makes her way to the kitchen where she knows Silovar was already waiting to meet her. She comes to a stop as she enters. Silovar stands at the end of the kitchen table, leaning with one hand on a chair, watching the world pass outside the window with an effortless ease.

It is not what he wears, nor how he carries himself, nor even how the light filtering through the small window catches his frame just right. Something draws her attention to admire him in a way she has yet to fully understand, but she indulges it anyway.

Silovar has done away with his usual blue tunic and coat. He is dressed in a tailored mage’s robe, comfortably hugging his frame just enough to flatter the outline of his well-formed shoulders and chest. An ornate sash edged with silver ribbon and embroidered with draconic themes cinches his robe at the waist. Osthryn wonders if the draconic theming present in the clothing and makeup of Mountainkeep bothers Silovar as much as it does herself. Perhaps he finds it flattering, like the hordes of supplicants that gather to marvel at him flying low over the city.

Osthryn jumps from her thoughts when Silovar turns, hoping she did not appear to be staring when he noticed her. He straightens, his face lighting up with an unabashed smile. “Oswald had nothing to worry about, you will blend in just fine,” Silovar says, offering his arm with a teasing smirk. “You probably won’t avoid turning heads, however. But then again, I think that would be because you will be with me."

Osthryn rolls her eyes, her outward nonchalance betrayed by the light flush tinting her cheeks at the hidden compliment. "As usual, all things are about you," she responds, allowing herself to look him up and down as she takes his offered arm. "You don't look half bad either."

They make their way down the stairs to the street. Osthryn, unused to the length of her hem, catches her foot and stumbles forward briefly. Silovar tightens their linked arms against himself, catching her. His arm is like an anchor rope, and falling against his chest is like falling against the trunk of an oak tree. Osthryn removes her hand from his chest, sheepishly looking up at his laughing eyes. It’s beginning to seem almost like a ritual that he should catch her, Osthryn grumbles in her mind.

“At some point," Osthryn says, finding her footing, “you must give me the opportunity to catch you for a change."

"Now that," Silovar responded as they continued on their way to the Keep, "implies that you must come fly with me again."

Osthryn thrusts her foot in front of Silovar, who narrowly avoids tripping with a small hop. “Not necessarily," Osthryn smiles cheekily.

“You still owe me a Glasswood demonstration," Silovar reminds her.

“Yes, yes, I do. Let’s just get tonight over with first," she sighs nervously.

“Over with? I aim to enjoy it! Now, remember, there are several statuettes of both Dragons and the gods Giles, Cointha, and Therese. At the Dragons you bow only your head, and at the statues of the gods you give a shallow curtsy with a hand over your chest. At the twin suns over the meeting-room door, you do the same, but remember to salute them when you finish the curtsy," Silovar demonstrates the salute, tapping his index finger and then pinkie finger in quick succession on his forehead.

Osthryn copies him. Keeping track of the lore of the gods and Dragons is one thing, but it’s another to participate. She hopes any blunders would go unnoticed or be forgiven.

They near the Keep. The tall, square towers and stonework facade loom large before them. The Keep stands on the highest point of the slope that form the city – it is after all what the city of Mountainkeep is named after. Osthryn finds herself excited to explore the building. As much as this meeting makes her nervous, her gloved hand resting in the crook of Silovar’s elbow seems to assure her that she has nothing to worry about.

After all, she knows he would catch her.