by Firestorm

Disclaimer: Do I need one for this? Um, ok. If you think that this is someone, than those someones belong to MCA/Universal.

Rabbit was always good in the hands of the bard. Skinned, spitted, seasoned and charred to perfection. Wild vegetables made a nice addition and the cool stream water that she had fetched while trapping the small woodland rodent washed it all down. Sitting back on their bedrolls, tummies full, wounds mending and bodies slowly winding down from the day's activities, the warrior and bard shared a moment of silent ease. Then the bard belched. Covering her mouth and hiccuping with laughter, the warrior glanced at her companion with amusement filled eyes.

"Excuse me." The warrior nodded, still trying to stifle her giggles. The bard frowned at her friend. Reaching into her haversack and withdrawing a papyrus wrapped package, she turned to the warrior and said, "keep it up tall, dark and menacing and I won't share." Revealing the contents of the package. Baklava. The warrior's favorite. Immediatly, the giggles stopped, though smile lines still formed in the corners of her eyes. "Much better." Her reward was a large square of the sticky sweet.

"Thanks." Volumes of gratitude expressed in one simple word.

"You're welcome. I know you really like them." The bard was always so thoughtful. Whenever she needed something, anything, the bard was there, by her side, a word, or a comforting hand to offer whatever reassurance or pick-me-up that was needed. The warrior knew that she would fail in her quest if the bard weren't so free with her words and actions.

After their meal, the warrior found herself staring up at the evening stars, searching them for some inspiration. Words. That's all they were, really. Her companion never seemed to have any trouble with them, yet every time she herself opened her mouth to put thought into voice, those words stuck to her teeth like poppy seeds from a particularly gooey bit of baklava.

Shaking her head, feeling the course strands of her night blown hair strike her face, the warrior reached into her pouch and withdrew her whetstone. Her sword made an oily hiss as it slid from it's housing on her back and soon, the shivery sound of stone and steel filled the air with words she couldn't say. The bard, as was her wont when the warrior performed this evening ritual, pulled out a scroll and began setting down her own thoughts. Schink. Scratch. Schink. Scratch. A conversation of musical non-music. By unspoken agreement, at moonrise, the blade was scabbarded, the scroll rolled and the bard helped the warrior out of her armor. Clips and clasps, buckles and tangs were undone. Bronze and leather plates piled near the warrior's saddle and the sword laid on the ground next to the warrior's bedroll. The bard's staff placed near to her own blankets. A quick hug. A single exchanged look and a smile.

"Good night."

"'Night." The rustle of blankets being pulled down. The scruntchy squelch of bodies sliding into sleeping posistions. The soft kitten snores of the bard drifting over the fire to the warrior's sensitive ears.

"Sweet dreams, my friend. Thank you for all that you are to me." Spoken now, the words she couldn't say. With none to hear, they seemed to free themselves of their own accord to drift out into the night and perhaps, touch the dreams of a special friend lying close by.

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