Dejah Thoris (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dejah_thoris) wrote2015-05-27 01:17 pm
dejah_thoris) wrote2015-05-27 01:17 pm
Entry tags:
[oom] In The Gym
[ sometime after this ]
"He touched your face." The Thark warlord has to stoop to get through the doorway and his growl fills the long room. "You let him touch your face."
Dejah's friend and long time ally Tars Tarkas had found her in the gym, working one of the Wing Chun dummies. They'd exchanged a handful of notes through the Bar, and she'd been thrilled that he was here. They were close, and she'd relied on his counsel many times in the past. Now that he was here, she thought he could do nothing but benefit from the exposure to all the different cultures of this place.
Tars had always had a curious mind and a warrior's heart. He demonstrated time and again, in the face of harsh opposition, that he only had the best interests of his people in mind. Some might consider his ways brutal or barbaric, but they did not understand Barsoom the way she did.. It was not a forgiving place, and Tars, for all he was burdened with the curse of compassion, had done better than most. He was a trusted companion and if asked, she would say that she considers him a member of her household and thus, under her protection.
That's what made this confrontation completely unexpected. She'd been complacent in Milliways, had forgotten that there were people watching her. She'd forgotten for a little while who she was and who she was beholden to.
"Tars." Dejah backs away from the dummy and wipes her hand across her brow, looking up at the nine-foot-tall warrior confronting her with the edge of a knife in his voice. "He is a friend here. He is someone I trust."
The Thark looms over her. "He is clearly far more than that." His upper hands touch his brow and then point skyward, the gesture sharp and expressive. "Do you take me for a fool? You let him touch your face. Who is this man? He is from Jasoom, I can see that much. And is he missing an arm? What kind of warrior would dare declare a suit for the Jeddak of Helium with only one arm?" He paces around her, hurling questions like radium shot.
Dejah's lips thin but she stands her ground. "I am making him a prostheses. When I am finished, he will have a better left hand than most warriors do. He is strong. He is a tactician. He lead his people in rebellion." And he's completely oblivious to the whole idea of dating someone whose people would consider his actions something that would require a formal declaration. There is one thing she absolutely certain of and she lets that be heard in her voice. "He is a good man."
"He is dead!" Tars leans back, lower arms crossed while his upper arms spread wide.
"..." Dejah cannot dispute this fact, and she doesn't even try. She turns her back on Tars, paces the mat, tugging at the wraps on her hands. "That does not matter."
An angry grunt rises in the Thark's chest and he paces around to look her in the eye again. "It does matter. If what they tell me is correct, he can give you no heirs. And he is from Jasoom. Do you really think they would accept someone to replace Dotar Sojat? Do you think they will forget the name of John Carter and let this -- whoever he is -- walk his path?"
"He is not Dotar Sojat. He has his own metal. His own battle scars. His own history."
"He has no metal to speak of. He lives with a boy. And he sleeps in a cocoon." Tars's hands mime a strange oblong shape in the air.
She shoots her old friend a harsh look. "You do not know him. You cannot claim to know him. You have not even spoken to him!"
Tars snarls and paces away again, his hands never still, sweeping through the air in broad arcs, as if he was speaking to the entire Senate, not just her. "Who in Issus's name is this human that he dares to touch your face? He does not even know who you are! You defeated the Thern and saved all of Barsoom! He should bend his neck in respect when you enter the room. You are Dejah Thoris. You are the daughter of a thousand Jeddaks. Your metal is the entire citadel of Helium --"
"We are not in Helium!" Dejah's voice cuts through the air like a sword. "No one knows who I am here. He does not care that he is not John Carter. All he wants is my company." Her indignation wanes for a moment and her expression softens. "We have shared tea together, in my rooms."
"...in your rooms?" The Thark's face goes slack in disbelief.
"Yes? There are no guards here to see. No one to dare to sully my name." The last is growled, almost a challenge. "Can't you see, for the first time in a century, I have someone who simply enjoys my company? I have a friend who doesn't care about all the rest."
"You are Dejah Thoris," Tars says, his voice graveled and low. He bends low to speak directly to his best friend's widow. "You have earned the right to select. You deserve more than him."
"Tars," Dejah says, her voice low and tinged with dark fire. Her hand darts out and she grabs him by one tusk, pulls his face down to her level. "John Carter is dead. I did not die with him."
"Thank Issus." His tone tempers somewhat with her rage so close to his eyes.
"Listen to me." She grips tight, gives a little shake to make her point. "You will treat him with respect. He is my friend. And you will not speak to him of violating ancient laws and rites that he has no possible way of knowing about. Am I understood?"
Tars frowns, but nods.
Dejah thrusts his head away from her with a sharp push, and the Thark stumbles before he catches his balance. "You may go now." Dejah points to the door, her expression hard.
"Yes, my Jeddak." Tars closes his eyes, dips his tusks, one fist clasped against his chest in salute.
She doesn't watch him leave the gym, just goes back to punishing the wooden dummy with a ferocious series of sharp blows.
Tars stalks down the hallway and ducks into the main bar. Perhaps this human male will understand the gravity of his transgressions if Tars explains the ancient laws to him.
"He touched your face." The Thark warlord has to stoop to get through the doorway and his growl fills the long room. "You let him touch your face."
Dejah's friend and long time ally Tars Tarkas had found her in the gym, working one of the Wing Chun dummies. They'd exchanged a handful of notes through the Bar, and she'd been thrilled that he was here. They were close, and she'd relied on his counsel many times in the past. Now that he was here, she thought he could do nothing but benefit from the exposure to all the different cultures of this place.
Tars had always had a curious mind and a warrior's heart. He demonstrated time and again, in the face of harsh opposition, that he only had the best interests of his people in mind. Some might consider his ways brutal or barbaric, but they did not understand Barsoom the way she did.. It was not a forgiving place, and Tars, for all he was burdened with the curse of compassion, had done better than most. He was a trusted companion and if asked, she would say that she considers him a member of her household and thus, under her protection.
That's what made this confrontation completely unexpected. She'd been complacent in Milliways, had forgotten that there were people watching her. She'd forgotten for a little while who she was and who she was beholden to.
"Tars." Dejah backs away from the dummy and wipes her hand across her brow, looking up at the nine-foot-tall warrior confronting her with the edge of a knife in his voice. "He is a friend here. He is someone I trust."
The Thark looms over her. "He is clearly far more than that." His upper hands touch his brow and then point skyward, the gesture sharp and expressive. "Do you take me for a fool? You let him touch your face. Who is this man? He is from Jasoom, I can see that much. And is he missing an arm? What kind of warrior would dare declare a suit for the Jeddak of Helium with only one arm?" He paces around her, hurling questions like radium shot.
Dejah's lips thin but she stands her ground. "I am making him a prostheses. When I am finished, he will have a better left hand than most warriors do. He is strong. He is a tactician. He lead his people in rebellion." And he's completely oblivious to the whole idea of dating someone whose people would consider his actions something that would require a formal declaration. There is one thing she absolutely certain of and she lets that be heard in her voice. "He is a good man."
"He is dead!" Tars leans back, lower arms crossed while his upper arms spread wide.
"..." Dejah cannot dispute this fact, and she doesn't even try. She turns her back on Tars, paces the mat, tugging at the wraps on her hands. "That does not matter."
An angry grunt rises in the Thark's chest and he paces around to look her in the eye again. "It does matter. If what they tell me is correct, he can give you no heirs. And he is from Jasoom. Do you really think they would accept someone to replace Dotar Sojat? Do you think they will forget the name of John Carter and let this -- whoever he is -- walk his path?"
"He is not Dotar Sojat. He has his own metal. His own battle scars. His own history."
"He has no metal to speak of. He lives with a boy. And he sleeps in a cocoon." Tars's hands mime a strange oblong shape in the air.
She shoots her old friend a harsh look. "You do not know him. You cannot claim to know him. You have not even spoken to him!"
Tars snarls and paces away again, his hands never still, sweeping through the air in broad arcs, as if he was speaking to the entire Senate, not just her. "Who in Issus's name is this human that he dares to touch your face? He does not even know who you are! You defeated the Thern and saved all of Barsoom! He should bend his neck in respect when you enter the room. You are Dejah Thoris. You are the daughter of a thousand Jeddaks. Your metal is the entire citadel of Helium --"
"We are not in Helium!" Dejah's voice cuts through the air like a sword. "No one knows who I am here. He does not care that he is not John Carter. All he wants is my company." Her indignation wanes for a moment and her expression softens. "We have shared tea together, in my rooms."
"...in your rooms?" The Thark's face goes slack in disbelief.
"Yes? There are no guards here to see. No one to dare to sully my name." The last is growled, almost a challenge. "Can't you see, for the first time in a century, I have someone who simply enjoys my company? I have a friend who doesn't care about all the rest."
"You are Dejah Thoris," Tars says, his voice graveled and low. He bends low to speak directly to his best friend's widow. "You have earned the right to select. You deserve more than him."
"Tars," Dejah says, her voice low and tinged with dark fire. Her hand darts out and she grabs him by one tusk, pulls his face down to her level. "John Carter is dead. I did not die with him."
"Thank Issus." His tone tempers somewhat with her rage so close to his eyes.
"Listen to me." She grips tight, gives a little shake to make her point. "You will treat him with respect. He is my friend. And you will not speak to him of violating ancient laws and rites that he has no possible way of knowing about. Am I understood?"
Tars frowns, but nods.
Dejah thrusts his head away from her with a sharp push, and the Thark stumbles before he catches his balance. "You may go now." Dejah points to the door, her expression hard.
"Yes, my Jeddak." Tars closes his eyes, dips his tusks, one fist clasped against his chest in salute.
She doesn't watch him leave the gym, just goes back to punishing the wooden dummy with a ferocious series of sharp blows.
Tars stalks down the hallway and ducks into the main bar. Perhaps this human male will understand the gravity of his transgressions if Tars explains the ancient laws to him.