Sarica. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
legislatory) wrote2022-05-23 11:09 am
legislatory) wrote2022-05-23 11:09 am
Entry tags:
fic.
title: My Love - Diamond Rings
word count: ~650
rating: Gen
warnings: N/A
summary: Buying your woman jewellery means you'll follow her anywhere - she carries your fortune.
author's notes: Written for![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
genprompt_bingo's "Warning Signs" prompt.
__________
There’s a saying in Efith, buying your woman jewellery means you’ll follow her anywhere – she carries your fortune. Sarica remembers his father saying it often, while he was growing up. Later, senators and other legislators at work would chime in, as they began settling down, finding fiancées and wives, as they began knocking up their fiancées and wives, and not always in that order. The same old story, yes? Sarica himself never ascribed to it, of course. There are no women in his life. No woman would ever carry his fortune, please, the only one that had ever come close, he married off and sent to a different state, never to come back.
Still, as he and Anakin return to the Capital from Reece, where indeed one of the rebels got a bit more talkative when he realised what Sarica could do to his family, knowing exactly who they were, knowing exactly where they lived, Sarica begins watching Anakin, furtive glances out the corner of his eye when the other man isn’t looking. Usually that means Anakin is doing other things, because he’s too observant to let it slide unless he’s preoccupied, tinkering with all that bronze that Sarica’s gold has bought him. Sarica doesn’t ask, lets him keep his projects to himself.
Though, naturally, he keeps himself updated. Juila leaves word every day as she stops by with his lunch at the Senate.
On his way home, one afternoon, the marketplace brimming with people doing the last-minute shopping, he comes by Hastor’s tent, the silversmith having lain out his jewellery for inspection near the opening. At the back, his furnace is burning, the tent hot as a wildfire and halting in front of his exhibit, Sarica feels the competing temperatures of out and in. The afternoon heat of Efithian summer. The working oven that Hastor continuously throws branches into, the crackling of wood loud, even over the hum of the crowd behind him.
“Legislator,” Hastor greets him, throwing a few extra logs into the fire, then coming over, stopping on the other side of his jewellery display. “Need new rings, I’ve a selection here.” He gestures to a long row of rings for men, heavy and ornate, good for leaving your emblem in the sealing wax. Sarica is wearing a few of them himself, at work, one is gleaming on his index finger now.
Making a swift decision, he says: “Something lighter, please. Thinner bands, like the ones you make for women.”
The silversmith gives him an inquisitive look, walking over to the other end of the display where the women’s jewellery is spread out. Sarica follows. “But not for a woman,” he asks, you almost can’t hear the curiosity in his voice. Almost.
“Not for a woman,” Sarica replies.
“And not for you either, Legislator,” Hastor wants to know.
“No.”
Within the next couple of days, the rumour will be out. That Legislator Sarica is buying jewellery for the man no one truly knows anything about, the one they’ve all seen, the stranger, the guest. Is he another slave, they’ll wonder. Is he the next heir?
Is he? Sarica doesn’t know. It all depends on Anakin. Anakin will let him know.
When he leaves Hastor’s tent, he’s spent a month’s salary on rings and bracelets and a couple of long necklaces with pendants that the religious types usually wear as protective measures against bad luck. Sarica has no faith in these things and yet, every faith in Anakin Skywalker’s ability to get out of any pickle imaginable on his own, so he’s had Hastor carve different symbols into them. It’s a notion, really, undoubtedly a foolish one, too, but Sarica runs with things as well as Anakin does and this, this he’ll take as far as it’ll go.
As far as Anakin will let it.
The marketplace is no less scorching hot as he makes his way home.
word count: ~650
rating: Gen
warnings: N/A
summary: Buying your woman jewellery means you'll follow her anywhere - she carries your fortune.
author's notes: Written for
genprompt_bingo's "Warning Signs" prompt.__________
There’s a saying in Efith, buying your woman jewellery means you’ll follow her anywhere – she carries your fortune. Sarica remembers his father saying it often, while he was growing up. Later, senators and other legislators at work would chime in, as they began settling down, finding fiancées and wives, as they began knocking up their fiancées and wives, and not always in that order. The same old story, yes? Sarica himself never ascribed to it, of course. There are no women in his life. No woman would ever carry his fortune, please, the only one that had ever come close, he married off and sent to a different state, never to come back.
Still, as he and Anakin return to the Capital from Reece, where indeed one of the rebels got a bit more talkative when he realised what Sarica could do to his family, knowing exactly who they were, knowing exactly where they lived, Sarica begins watching Anakin, furtive glances out the corner of his eye when the other man isn’t looking. Usually that means Anakin is doing other things, because he’s too observant to let it slide unless he’s preoccupied, tinkering with all that bronze that Sarica’s gold has bought him. Sarica doesn’t ask, lets him keep his projects to himself.
Though, naturally, he keeps himself updated. Juila leaves word every day as she stops by with his lunch at the Senate.
On his way home, one afternoon, the marketplace brimming with people doing the last-minute shopping, he comes by Hastor’s tent, the silversmith having lain out his jewellery for inspection near the opening. At the back, his furnace is burning, the tent hot as a wildfire and halting in front of his exhibit, Sarica feels the competing temperatures of out and in. The afternoon heat of Efithian summer. The working oven that Hastor continuously throws branches into, the crackling of wood loud, even over the hum of the crowd behind him.
“Legislator,” Hastor greets him, throwing a few extra logs into the fire, then coming over, stopping on the other side of his jewellery display. “Need new rings, I’ve a selection here.” He gestures to a long row of rings for men, heavy and ornate, good for leaving your emblem in the sealing wax. Sarica is wearing a few of them himself, at work, one is gleaming on his index finger now.
Making a swift decision, he says: “Something lighter, please. Thinner bands, like the ones you make for women.”
The silversmith gives him an inquisitive look, walking over to the other end of the display where the women’s jewellery is spread out. Sarica follows. “But not for a woman,” he asks, you almost can’t hear the curiosity in his voice. Almost.
“Not for a woman,” Sarica replies.
“And not for you either, Legislator,” Hastor wants to know.
“No.”
Within the next couple of days, the rumour will be out. That Legislator Sarica is buying jewellery for the man no one truly knows anything about, the one they’ve all seen, the stranger, the guest. Is he another slave, they’ll wonder. Is he the next heir?
Is he? Sarica doesn’t know. It all depends on Anakin. Anakin will let him know.
When he leaves Hastor’s tent, he’s spent a month’s salary on rings and bracelets and a couple of long necklaces with pendants that the religious types usually wear as protective measures against bad luck. Sarica has no faith in these things and yet, every faith in Anakin Skywalker’s ability to get out of any pickle imaginable on his own, so he’s had Hastor carve different symbols into them. It’s a notion, really, undoubtedly a foolish one, too, but Sarica runs with things as well as Anakin does and this, this he’ll take as far as it’ll go.
As far as Anakin will let it.
The marketplace is no less scorching hot as he makes his way home.