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47: Mystery	By : IcarusComplex Category: S through Z > Sinbad (BBC) > Sinbad (BBC) Views: 847 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Sinbad, or it's characters or settings, nor do I make any money from this little jaunt into fantasyland right here.

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- 1-47: Mystery
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100 Theme Fic: 47 - Mystery.
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Mystery

He thinks of her, sometimes. Even when the sea is becalmed around them and it seems that death himself stalks the Providence, he can’t help but think of her. They are the darkest, and the lightest. And even when she is at her most aloof, Gunnar can’t help but wonder what Nala would look like with all her majesty stripped away. What, standing before her, he would think to see her laid bare and human, defenceless before his eyes.
Sweat trickled between Nala’s shoulder blades. The Northman could see it from where he sat fashioning a fishhook. And then he longed to follow it, to trace its journey into territories unknown. With all the misfortune that dogged their steps, it seemed as if Loki himself danced on the prow of their ship. These thoughts – any thoughts – were a welcome distraction from that grim notion.
He had known women before. With no wife to give him pause and his loyalties bound only to his steel, why should he not have taken the cup of life and drunk deep of its sweetness? But in Nala, he sensed a darkness, a secret to match his own, and in sensing it thirsted to taste its flavour for himself.
And so he wonders. Watching, learning. Always from the corner of his eye. Never openly enough for one of the others to catch on. He has no worry of Nala herself. Fiercely intelligent as she is, she is also innocent in a way he hasn’t come across in quite some time. He sees the mingling of fear and lust in that hooded gaze whenever Sinbad or himself chances to walk by half-clothed. It isn’t hard to divine the origins of that look. In the depth of night, when the ship was asleep, Gunnar lay awake in his bunk and basked in the warmth that coiling at the base of his spine like one of the giant snakes that twined around dancing girls in Alexandria.
Free of watchful eyes, he wonders at the line of her throat. Her proud, sensual profile. The dips of navel and hipbone. That heavy-lidded gaze, part predator part silent observer. How her lips reach out and twist up into a smile, and the brilliant flash of white against her skin when she does. He envisions her strong legs, peeking through the slits in her fitted skirts, and imagines how they would feel squeezing his waist with the soft skin of her inner thighs stroking his hips. Some days, like today, he pictures unlacing her stomach-baring tops, one eyelet at a time or violently at once, and trailing his mouth down her spine to the dips of her lower back.
More than once, shivers have crawled down his spine like a bad omen when Nala makes a sound or interjection that is all too easy to ascribe different origins to. This one: a whimper of delight or surprise. That: a guttural moan that makes his ears itch to hear it for real. As if in sympathy imaginary lines on his back ache to be marked out properly. To pass the time he waxes lyrical to himself on the virtues of being buried deep inside while he fucks her, feeling her pulsate around him until her moans make the air quake. What would they look like together? He, the blue-eyed Northman, and Nala, black-eyed Queen of the South who wears her silks as armour and lets no man close enough to say if she has a heart or no?
He wants to watch her come apart. And more than that: he wants to see what’s beneath. There’s a secret here; he sees a corner of it peeking up from the loam, sometimes. A brassy glinting like a lover’s whisper: tawdry but precious. The animal side of him wants to know what it is, purely for the joy of discovery. But this trail of thought takes time to sink into, and it is only after everything else is peeled away that he finds himself pondering that particular aspect of Nala.
But it’s the smooth curve of her breast that catches his eye every day. It threatens to give him away.
It’s the way her bust swells from all her silks and brocades like Sól herself rising from the sea. When this thought occurs to him, he longs to travel below the horizon and find out where the sun goes to sleep at night—and where it rises from, the next. He would gamble a hundred fortunes that his fingertips on that curve would find it smooth as one of her silks, and that it would taste of honey, and spice, and far-off places he has never been to.
Thoughts of this kind leave him panting hard and straining to hear if he has woken anyone even as the taste of cinnamon and cloves fades out of his mouth. The snake uncoils itself and leaves for another night and the next morning he will be up at dawn to salute the birth of a new sun as if nothing happened.
And until the second sun rises, sometimes awash in green, sometimes red, or orange, or blue, all is right with the world.
This is his period of respite. It will last until dawn fully breaks over the Providence, waking the last of her crew, and hurling Gunnar back into his wondering over all the nooks and secret places she hides beneath her silken armour.

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No idea where this came from. Apparently I have a thing for Nala, though. This is news to me. (PS: I'm Australian, not stupid, so yes, those 'u's are where they're meant to be.)
It's a little shocking to me that no one's thought to go darkside on this wonderful series yet, but maybe I'm just ahead of the curve...
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47: Mystery

Mystery