Title: Braska at 23
Characters: Braska, Braska's wife
Notes: Requested by not_cynical.
He stands at the entrance to the temple complex, looking up at the spire, the words of the temple summoner still ringing in his ears. "Traitor!" "Heretic!" "Outcast!" Staring into the late morning sun, he can see the faces of the other summoners-in-training closing to him before turning their backs, leaving him nothing but to walk out of the hall, head held high, keeping his steps smooth and even, though his knees wanted to shake.
He clenches his fists at the memory, then lets them fall open; fingers gently tickle his left palm, then slide into his, and he squeezes again, gently this time. One breath, then another -- he pulls the fresh air deep into his lungs, replacing the scents of fear and stale incense with cleaner smells, better memories: salt spray, meat grilling somewhere in the city market, her delicate perfume.
"I'm sorry," she says into his ear, the softness of her breath tickling his neck, and he knows that she must have stood on tiptoe to reach so high. He turns, and she is flat on her feet again, looking up at him, sorrow glinting in her green eyes.
He smiles at her, the rush of tenderness even stronger than it had been that first day, the day they met on the doorstep of Home. "It's worth it." He had embarked on that trip certain it would change his life; never would he have guessed just how much. Hand still twined with hers, he turns his back on St. Bevelle and takes her to town, to the home they are building together and will share for the rest of their lives.