Chopping Wood for Food

Aulus looked inward as he absent-mindedly patted Jareth's hand. He was no poet, but neither was he thoughtless. Still, he would eat his foot before he chose to sound like the sycophants of the Tevinter Court. Dignity, the last crumbs of it, he held onto dearly. Octavia had taken away his future, all his mother's hopes for him, when she surpassed him in the Magister's competition. Because of her, he was driven like a wet rat into the harrowing ranks of the infantry just to get by. And now, he served her - the woman was a self-absorbed, conniving, spoiled brat. He had a plan originally - for revenge - but now the little voice in his head assured him he loved her.

And, to be honest with himself, she had a few qualities he respected, bitterly.

For one, she always had a plan. (Even if he would have to execute it, they were more than he could put together.) Secondly, she didn't need anyone - not for help or for love - impenetrable. Lastly, she was brave. Nothing seemed to scare her - or was that but naivette? Aulus rubbed his chin as he considered wine-tasting-in-Antiva Octavia, Arlathan-hot-spring-lounging Octavia, and sleeping-all-day Octavia, and he asked himself why he bothered to remember the way her hair curled right at the top of her head, the way her lips barely parted when she was concocting a strategy, and the odd hop she made while dismounting a horse. Such silly details, he chose to remember. He shook his head and looked back at Jareth.

She has good ideas, sometimes. Ideas like Plan As and Plan Bs I'd never consider. To get what she wants, like clothing or jewelry or a laugh at another's expense. Nothing any useful, though. I have been all the useful she needs, he huffed. How is that? he asked, lifting an eyebrow hopefully.