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Is it fate?
No, aptitude. No one ever uses words like destiny or good fortune or fate when talking about these things, because everyone likes to fancy that they themselves know about the secrets behind true aptitude and worth. Mòrag would never consider herself to be one of them, because arrogance is unbecoming of a burgeoning Driver of the Empire.
So when she successfully resonates with Brighid, it isn’t fate.
They spend the first few days in distant civility with few words exchanged between them. It only makes sense for the Jewel of Mor Ardain to have that much business to attend to, even more than her own Driver. Brief contact and less conversation are all they hold between them, yet Mòrag’s heart thumps just a bit harder with every fleeting moment they’re allowed to have without the company of hovering senators and nobles. That’s fine. This is fine. Brighid just has that effect on most people, she would assume.
And she finds herself yearning for more of those moments, when it’s just the two of them. Alone.
She finds Brighid along one of the wings of the Palace one evening, facing the Cloud Sea. Few soldiers are patrolling this area; it’s quiet, relative to the usual noise of Alba Cavanich, and Brighid’s flames flicker in the warm breeze. Her heart is already beginning to pick up its pace.
Mòrag takes a deep breath as she goes to stand beside her, as casual as a familiar companion.
“Lady Mòrag,” Brighid nods to her.
The usual greeting. Mòrag is her Driver and yet… she feels no different than she did less than a week ago, before she met Brighid. No, that’s wrong, she does feel different. Because Brighid is now irrevocably a part of her, and she is a part of Brighid, and no amount of nonsense about fate or destiny is to blame.
She wants to… get closer to her. As a Driver.
Feelings are very confusing, sometimes. Mòrag had always been quick to grasp lessons both on paper and in hand with a blade, but no one ever tutored her in the art of processing her feelings.
So when she thinks of getting closer to Brighid— standing a little closer to her, to feel the warmth of her fire, watching the rolling clouds at her side, Mòrag isn’t quite sure what to call it.
“We’ll be spending more time together,” Brighid smiles. “I’ve been kept from you long enough. Don’t you find it to be odd, to treat a Blade in such a manner?”
“Considering someone of your status…” Mòrag starts. She loses the end of her sentence with a weak cough. “You’re very unlike most other Blades, Brighid.”
“So I’ve been told.” She puts a hand to her chin. “I’d like to hear my Driver’s thoughts on the matter, however.”
Mòrag looks down at the clouds, so far beneath them that even the soft top layer of mist would do little to cushion the impact. Her thoughts are… confusing. Because she’s a Driver and Brighid is her Blade and she knew what to expect before the resonance, of the predetermined relationship of a weapon and its wielder, but Brighid is nothing like those impersonal recounts of history Mòrag read about. The textbooks and tutors didn’t tell her about how she’d feel.
So she carefully says, “We’ll be working together for a very long time. I hope to live up to your expectations.”
“My expectations.”
“Naturally.”
Brighid gazes at her, sidelong, fingers tapping against her cheek. Mòrag hopes the blood hasn’t rushed to her face. If only she could consciously will her heart to stop racing so quickly.
“And what do you think I’m expecting, Lady Mòrag?”
This time, she doesn’t miss a beat. “A Driver worthy of wielding your flames in battle.” For emphasis, Mòrag bows her head. “Rest assured, I don’t intend to let you down.”
She means it, too, hoping the gravity of her words is enough to convey that. But she loses that composure and startles when she feels hot fingers under her chin, tilting her face up. Brighid smiles at her.
Be still, drumming heart.
“Good. I’ll be holding you to your word.”
Her blood pulses loud in her head, but she breathes steady. Mòrag nods, hyperaware of the fingers running along her jaw.
Fate had always been too romantic of a word, anyway.