“Of course,” I answer nonchalantly, trying and failing not to stare at her lips or think about the fact that I’m dying to taste her.
The tiniest sound sneaks out of her. It’s almost like a quiet whimper of need, but she all too quickly clears her throat, the gruff sound working to overpower the squeak of vulnerability I swear she just made. I pretend I didn’t hear it even as I catalog it in my mind.
“Tarek isn’t usually a fan of being carried about, but Riall is all for it,” I tell her, continuing with our humorous exchange and offering her a sly grin.
“Why can I see that being true about Riall?” Auset asks with a breathy huff, and a chuckle rumbles out of me.
“Ready?” I ask, hesitantly pulling her away from my chest and positioning her over the middle of the plaster-filled frame. I want to continue holding her tight, but I also want to give her the best kit imaginable, and I need a mold of her body if I’m to have any hope of doing that.
Auset pulls in a deep breath and nods. “Ready.”
I set her down slowly, and I’m unable to hold in my laugh when she makes contact with the plaster and squeals.
“It’s cold!” she squeaks out as she tries to climb my arms to get closer to my chest and further away from the thick mixture. I keep her in place, and she glares at the grin on my face. After a moment, she accepts her fate, and I set her down the rest of the way. The plaster rises up the sides of her black-clad torso, and I get excited knowing half the mold is already well on its way.
“It will warm now that you’re touching it,” I explain, moving down the frame so I can position her legs the way I need them. “Spread like this,” I instruct as I cup one of her thighs and pull it until her legs split apart.
I watch a shiver sneak over her as plaster seeps up her legs, hugging the shape of them. I set her limb down until it’s straight and check that the other one is aligned the same way. Auset rests her neck in the padded cut out at the top of the frame that allows her to be free of the mess from the neck up. After a few adjustments with her arms and pressing her hands flat while I splay her fingers, I give her a nod.
“Stay just like that while I grab the barrier for the next part,” I instruct, and she nods somewhat begrudgingly. I don’t know if it’s the order I just gave or the vulnerability she’s feeling right now that’s bugging her, or maybe it’s both. “You okay?” I check, watching her carefully as I move to the side to unfold a large sheet of the protective rind material we wear under our armor.
Auset has already been wearing my rind bottoms, and as much as I like to see her in them, I need to make her several sets of her own. When the material fits correctly, it compresses and protects all of our vital organs and biological weak spots. She may think my one of a kind togs fit her, but they won’t hold parts of her together as needed, because they’re technically too big. She needs the right size.
“Fine, I think,” she assures me, and then she makes a concentrated effort to relax into the plaster. “I’ve just never experienced anything like this before. Is this how all armorers fit their customers?” she asks, and I snap out the raven-black fabric so that it billows above her and then slowly floats down until it’s covering the frame.
“I can’t speak for all armorers; I’ve only met one, but this is how she did it, and I learned from the best,” I tell her as I press the fabric down until it’s skimming the plaster and adhering to Auset’s shape.
I work quickly, knowing the mixture in the bucket is already setting. I need to get it poured over her before it crosses the threshold from being pliable to uselessly stiff.
“Okay?” I check with Auset again, pausing what I’m doing to read her face. Her eyes flick up to mine, and she nods once more.
Grabbing some small tacks and a hammer, I fix the edges of the rind to the wood frame. I tack fabric around Auset’s neck so that the plaster can’t leak out, and then I grab the big bucket and pour the remaining mixture into the frame.
“Will I be able to breathe as this gets hard?” she asks, looking down as the gray mixture settles over her. The barrier at her neck prevents her from seeing what’s happening past it, but I know the sensation is strange as the plaster works to surround her and set.
“There’s give to the plaster itself as it fixes into shape. It will dry giving you the room you need to pull in air and let it go. Which is good because the armor I design for you needs to be able to do the same thing,” I answer, an amused smile sneaking over my face. “It’s hard to explain how exactly it all works, but I promise you’ll be fine.”
She nods again, but I don’t miss the tight set to her shoulders and jaw. I don’t like that she’s once again apprehensive, but this will all be over soon, and she’ll see that she was always safe, just like I said she’d be.
“So, weapons,” I encourage, reminding her that I’m still interested in what she might like.
“Right,” she answers, inhaling a deep breath and trying to focus on the question at hand. “Daggers, but I already said that,” she states more to herself than to me. “I like the feel of a sword in my hand,” she tells me, and immediately images of her fighting in the sand pit at the ludere and training with Riall earlier flash in my mind.
She’s good with a sword. Lithe. Strong. No hesitation. I nod approvingly, and she takes it as encouragement to keep going.
“I’m used to making the bigger long swords work that we trained with at the ludere, but one made for me would be…well, I’d like that.”
The small confession wraps itself around my heart and squeezes. I remember the first time my brothers and I had the means to craft something of our very own. I spent almost three months perfecting everything about our first weapons, all the way down to how they gleam, or rather don’t, in the light. That moment was unlike anything I’d experienced. It was the first time I really felt as though we could forge a life despite what we were up against. I want that for Auset. I want her to have everything that we did, that we still do.
An eager thrill streaks down my arms as I picture what I could make for her. Blades that mirror her curves and the way she flows from movement to movement as though she’s water, fire, and steel simultaneously. Blades that are worthy of her resilience and determination. She needs weapons that will drink down the blood she spills and make her even more formidable than she already is. I can give her that, that and so much more, and all at once, I itch to get to work because I can’t wait to see the look on her face when she realizes that too.
“I’d also like an ax,” she tells me, but it sounds more like a question than a request. “I’m good with the double-sided variety. Maybe the armor could allow the handle of the ax to sit above one shoulder while the grip of the sword sits above the other, for easy access,” she states, her eyes suddenly far away and thoughtful. “That’s probably it. If I can’t dispatch someone with a sword, an ax, and a bunch of daggers, then I’m dead anyway.”
My brow furrows with dismay. I don’t like that thought. None of us would ever let that happen, but she’s still refusing to see that.
She will.
“Oh, and is there any way to get gloves that have metal bits embedded over the knuckles? I saw a guard who had protection like that, and I always wanted some. A little extra oomph in my punches when in close contact would be fine by me,” she adds.
