Blueshift

Blueshift Chapter Twenty One (NC-17)
Disclaimers Apply

A/N Goddess Foxfeather, Queen of Mad Plotbunnies, BUSIEST WOMAN ALIVE ™, Prophetic Muse, Hamster Witch and Uberbeta… Tiki Ents might make for an interesting sabbat craft, lol… InterNutter, TC, Maxwell Pink and Dracena are loverly and wondermous for archiving/hosting. ProPhile: I get the urge to send you the condensed versions now… Morgan: Are the sidewalks finally clear? Readers/Reviewers: *GLOMP * Thanks for the emails!


Lance yawned and stretched and rubbed his eyes. Amara had been in the ladies room for ten minutes. He highly suspected that she was mystified by the sinks, which came on automatically as soon as something passed in front of the motion sensor. They had another two hours left in their layover, then a flight to Ecuador, then… he did not know. Amara swore she had the arrangements under control but he had a niggling feeling that she was relying on some hocus pocus or divine intervention for the final leg of the journey. He had thought the South would be warmer but he could feel the cold seeping through the window against his back, chilling him like ice against his spine. He did not dare move, though. He would lose his seat and Amara’s, piled high with their carry on bags. He glared sideways at the reedy woman eyeing the seat predatorially and fought the urge to bare his teeth. If Amara stayed in the bathroom any longer, he was tempted to go in after her, seats be damned… Out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone move closer, standing so close to him that Lance could reach out and touch him if he chose. The man was wearing pale orange robes and he groaned inwardly. _Great. Hare Krishnas, _ he thought bitterly. “Look, I don’t have any…” He paused, staring up at the man. It was not, he thought faintly, a Hare Krishna.
The man was tall, imposing even in the complexly wrapped robes. He wore a golden toque, inscribed in a way that reminded Lance of a dog collar bearing the owner’s name. He had a single brass ring on his thumb and a piercing in the cartilage of his left ear.1 His dark gaze swept over Lance from head to foot and a slight sneer curled his upper lip. He uttered something Lance did not understand but he recognized the language.
“Um… Roseo ergo Porca.”2
The man blinked and jerked his head back in surprise and confusion. He repeated himself slowly, adding “Amara” in a tone which bespoke little patience.
Lance felt his brows furrow together. “Aqua fortis3,” he said finally, grasping at straws. The robed man frowned deeply and reached for Lance’s shoulder, pulling him to his feet. Lance wrenched away and curled his fingers into fists. “Get the fuck away from me!”
“Lance,” Amara’s voice came stridently from across the waiting area. The small crowed was riveted and Lance winced, shifting to see his lover standing between two chairs meant to serve as an ersatz entrance into the space. She looked tired, shaken even. The flight had not been pleasant for her, her previous experience limited to the Blackbird and being in the care of people she knew and trusted. “Lance, step away from Vespasianus4.”
Lance knew better than to ask the hackeneyed “You know this guy?” and instead stepped to the side, staying within Amara’s line of vision. “I think we should move,” he said casually, eyeing the male Nova Roman. “Or he should.”
Amara ignored him, walking slowly towards the Nova Roman. She felt naked in her jeans and sweater, her boots too heavy on her feet. She longed for her formal attire, for the weight of the bracelets and rings and the scent of the incense and the lavender rising from her clothing. She hated the way her body felt in the style of clothing she wore to fit in and generally ignored until moments like this, when she was reminded of home. Glancing at Lance, she stepped close to Vespasianus, her father’s servant who seemed to not have aged a moment since she had last seen him. In a low voice, pitched just for the other Nova Roman’s ears, she asked in her mother tongue, “What are you doing here? How did you come to be here?”
Lance looked around warily. They had attracted attention, no doubt about that. There was no way to avoid it, he thought, when speaking with a six foot five man wearing an orange bed sheet and gold jewelry. Amara was still speaking in low, strident tones, gesturing with her hands in a way Lance had long ago come to understand as meaning “If there were no witnesses, I would tear your trachea out through your nose right now…” He had to smile at that. _At least she’s feeling better… _
“Come on,” she said suddenly, pushing past Vespasianus and grabbing her bag from the seat. She did not even look at the servant as she strode from the waiting area. Lance blinked and followed, dashing back to grab his own bag and leaving the Nova Roman man staring after them. “Fucking twit,” Amara muttered as she headed towards the food court area, wrinkling her nose at the smell of fast food.
“What? Me? What’d I do? Oh, him,” Lance panted, catching up. “What the Hell is going on, Princess?”
“He said,” she growled savagely, “the Gods spoke to Father, decreeing an emissary be sent to ensure that I did not arrive.” She stopped and dropped her bag, turning to look up at Lance with curiosity writ large on her features. “What did you *say* to him, anyway?”
“Er… Roseo ergo Porca,” he said carefully.
Amara sucked on her lower lip to keep from laughing, then finally gave in and giggled, covering her mouth with her hand. “That explains a bit…”
He smiled faintly, uncertain of the cause of her mirth. “So now what? We can’t get back to Bayville… our tickets are nonrefundable…” He was already thinking of a convincing argument for the airline, something about a death in the family, appendicitis, alien invasion… He was scrambling mentally and almost missed what Amara said. “Do what?”
“I said,” she repeated slowly, “we’re not going back to Bayville. I just couldn’t stand to look at him, that worm. He is not even worthy to be a slave in my father’s house. We board the plane in an hour, as planned.”
Lance nodded, unable to ignore the cold fingers spreading in his chest..



1 In many ancient cultures, a piercing in the cartilage signified a messenger. In the Middle East it was typically confined to females but this is my story so the guy gets one too. Ner. Anyway, I got that from The Urban Primitive, which is a pretty good book about Pagan practices away from the typical pastoral ideology of most books on the path.
2 I’m pink therefore I’m Spam (or pork…) Thanks, Doctor Nightfall, lol…
3 Nitric acid, actually. “Strong water”
4 In case you care… http://www.behindthename.com/php/view.php?name=vespasianus