This was the most appropriate thought in Amalthea's head as she watched the little dragon scurry away, a sparkling ear cuff pocketed in its bulging left cheek like a chipmunk.
Maybe it hadn't been the most well thought out idea to admittedly goad the little reptile, and maybe even mean. When it had sidled up to the stall and tried to peek up over the edge, she'd picked up the cuff in her telekinesis and lifted it so that the dragon could see, even giving it a few shakes so that the light bounced off of it.
That was the big mistake.
She saw the dragon's eyes widen to dark, dilated pools as its head followed. The little thing must have been young, still growing into its head and talons. It lowered itself closer to the ground, wriggling its entire body like a snake sliding over water before leaping up and chomping the ear cuff out of the air.
Amalthea, to her credit, did react swiftly.
She hissed a quick apology to her grandfather, who was staring at her as if she'd just told him not to be alarmed but that she thought that the moon wasn't the same shape every night, and darted off after the scaley little thief.
With the usual crowded and festive atmosphere of the market, it meant a lot of starting and stopping. Which meant always being several steps and counting behind the little dragon, the only way she was even able to keep track of it was the way its raven blue scales glinted in torchlight as it scurried beneath hooves.
A break in the crowd allowed Amalthea to make up some ground, giving her room to raise her speed before the ephemeral meadow in the forest of bodies closed in again all too soon. Much too soon for her to slow her pace as a stranger came into view at an alarming rate.
kissed my penny and threw it in
prayed to keep my soul
O
ne day, a spirit will come to her and brush back that golden blonde hair, and he will tell Elliana about Vercingtorix’s life, the life he will not so openly share with her. He will tell her of his scars, of his pain, of his life. And Elliana, she will listen, and Elliana, she will find him, and Elliana, she will sit beside him and cry the silent tears she has perfected so well.
The quiet is soothing to her and she holds her breather as though she can will the universe into motion, that she can make something amazing happen, but the day remains quiet. Her mother is at the hospital, Nic is gone somewhere, and Elli was instructed not to stray too far from her mother’s cottage by the sea. So she dances along the cliff sides like her mother before her and her mother before that. Like any child, she is curious- concerned, and always observant of the very pattern and fabric of that entire world around her: and its people. She blinks here and there, listening to birds and crickets, to the rolling waves not far off, and to the strange sound of a murmuring in the worlds’ shadows; but there is no hesitation in her, only bravery and wild intrigue.
She has never stopped to think about her otherness, never worried that others may find her strange or different. A drum beats and Elliana moves her feet. She is like a ballerina, twirling, skipping, leaping, too far from home, too close to that rocky ledge.
It is here that she finds him. The edge of a cliff, beside the ocean.
Just like her mother before her.
Her dancing stops as she notices him there, like he had been waiting for her. She’s a little more hesitant now, suspicion settling into her bones as her, her mother’s blue eyes narrow. Truthfully, she should be more frightened than she is, but she’s never had any reason to not be brave. Her parents always watched over her, always protected her. There had never been any reason to not feel safe.
“Hello, I am Elliana,” she says. “Are you looking for someone?” She asks, her thin voice gets a little higher at the end but she can’t deny the small tendrils of fear that she feels in the pit of her stomach. She just hears her mother’s voice ringing in her ears, urging her to be kind, to listen when others needed to talk, to be there when others wouldn’t. So she doesn’t run. Her ears flicker and she takes a step to him. There are differences, there is no rain, the ocean does not viciously dance, instead it is quiet in its movement today. This is entirely the same—this is entirely different. But just like her mother before her, she should go, she should not begin what will surely not end, because Elliana is so heartbreakingly her mother’s daughter and is doomed, no matter how brave she is, how fearless, how kind, to repeat some of her mistakes.
They ought to be an analogy for gravity; for fate; the way that objects collide. They certainly collided, and could not have been more different. But that collision, she knows, had sent them spiraling apart. The gravity of their attraction had not been strong enough to survive the damage of the impact. The rest, however, she is not certain of: the emotion he evokes when she sees him, far below, does not seem like fate. Only like force. Only like something she cannot fight.
And for these reasons, she does not mean to find him. She does not want to find him, or she would have long ago. For once, she does not come from the sea; but Boudika can see that he is there to find her, or at least to reminisce. She stands at the precipice of the cliffs above, staring down, watching him as a god might, with feigned apathy.
From this high, he is small and dark and tragic. Boudika surprises herself at the familiarity of his body; the way she can remember, with vivid sharpness, the exact hardness of his shoulder when she pressed her face against it. She can even remember his taste; sweet-strong, sweet-warm, vivacious and full of life.
He does not seem as if he would taste that way now.
Perhaps it is because, before the sea, he hardly looks like a man at all. He is a silhouette of her past, one of the many men brought to his knees by the churning expanse before him. The mother sea is a gleaming jewel, too bright to look at. This is the most light she has ever seen him covered by.
The season has been turning from winter to spring; but it is still too early for the dead things of the cold to come back, for the buds upon the trees and within the brittle yellow grass to bloom into new life. The only thing to suggest anything turning, anything changing, is the way the sun glints blade-sharp from the surface of the Terminus Sea.
And there he is.
Small, and dark, and sad, and swallowed by light.
Boudika wants to turn away.
But that force remains, that gutted sense of hunger, of wanting. Perhaps it has gone from lust to knowledge; from affection and hope to understanding.
He was something she had never deserved, she supposes. Boudika feels more a fool than ever for having cared so deeply for him, for wanting to love him. (Even now, she cannot confess love, because the question of whether she cared for him that deeply remains a wound in her heart, an unfinished story, an unanswered question).
But Boudika had wanted to love him. She had wanted to, very badly, and that is the wound that stings the most. That is what fills her with tragedy. After everything, after every hurt she had ever felt, she had wanted to try again. She had thought, she had believed, that... there could be more. She had thought—so foolishly thought—that perhaps, in spite of everything, despite everything, she might have found happiness with someone new, someone other, someone who did not tie her to the anchors of her past to drown.
She wants to say that before she thinks better of it she descends the cliffside, and is beside him. But to do so would be to tell a lie, mostly to herself. The descent is not easy. The descent is long and treacherous and haphazard, so that the sun dips down in that sapphire sky toward the even brighter sea.
No.
Boudika has the entire day to think about it. To think about what she will say to him.
To think about turning back. To think about becoming an osprey, or a monster, or a wolf. Her magic is strangely quiet, as if all those great beasts within her watch upon the peripherals of her uncertain heart, eyes gleaming. At any moment, the wolves might bay. At any moment, the lions might thrash and cry aloud. At any moment, the shark might rush through the current, jaw agape.
Then, all that time is gone. The creatures she can become are silent within her. And she is standing behind him, looking over his shoulder, toward the too-bright water.
Boudika does not say anything. She only watches him. She traces his shoulder with her eyes, his haunch, the ridged scarring that covers his back from the Disciple’s whips.
Why, she wants to ask. Why do we hurt each other so?
Is this what love is?
It seems, to Boudika, anyone she has ever cared for has hurt her. Or vice versa.
She does not want to see his face. She does not want to meet his eyes. And so for just a moment longer, she refuses to. She waits for the sun to begin to set, and for the sky to go into the colors of a death throw, of oranges and reds and pinks so vibrant it must surely mean the end of the world.
It is then, and only then, when the horizon is too terrible to look at any longer that Boudika says, “Tenebrae.”
Just, Tenebrae.
Always, Tenebrae.
§
So tell me how to be in this world
Tell me how to breathe in and feel no hurt
some memories never leave your bones.
like the salt in the sea; they become a part of you
- you carry them.
This boy does not belong here. He moves through the crowds as if they were a herd of goats, unpredictable, loud, smelly. The boy moves with a grace only the wilds of nature could breathe into his bones. The boy slinks, leonine and at once also walks like a stag amidst a crowd of fools. Heis not sure what to be here, within the thick of the city. Should he be afraid? Should he be calm? Eyes stray to the boy for even passersby know that he does not belong here. If they are not drawn to the way he moves - like a wild, elven thing - then maybe it is the dirt upon his skin, or the tangle of vines and spring flowers that hang from his antlers, or maybe it is the grazes upon his limbs. Leonidas smells of wild flower meadows, starlight and damp woodland, they smell of strange strong scents and they clang and clatter with jewels as they move.
His lips curl with distaste. Vendors stand at stalls, crying out to sell their wares. The boy wanders, drifting like a leaf loosed from a tree, caught upon a whimsical wind that cannot decide where to lay it. He floats between stalls looking at foods that make his stomach rumble and jewels that gleam ugly and ostentatiously up at him. His lip curls and he goes to leave, except for her. She is a flash of silver, like a fish within water. He looks and expects her to be lost to the tide of the crowd. But she isn’t. She stands, laughing.
Leonidas falls still, statuesque as a carving of gold and copper-hue marble. He watches her, enchanted by her laughter, struck by the way parts of her blink in and out of sight. They had not found a healer and still they both straddle the land of the living and the land beyond. Passersby brush past him, some through him as his body shifts, still struggling to be real. It has been days since he has eaten properly since he could not hold anything long enough to eat. For so long he felt nothing at all. Not the breeze in the air, nor the brush of a flower across his knee. But now he feels, sometimes. It comes and goes like dreams. Life tingling upon his skin, reminding him of what it means to exist. Had she felt it too?
Leonidas moves toward her, his eyes finally lifting from the pale, silvery dance of her skin and up to the boy she laughs with. His nose draws in toward his chest, his muscled neck arching. Something twists, hot and raw within his stomach. It makes him impulsive, angry. The wild-wood boy turns away from them, but his eyes drift back bright and curious, unable to draw themselves away from her for long.
He looks over stalls as he drifts along in the crowd, still not fitting, still blinking in and out of sight, ghostly, strange. A necklace catches his eye. It is unlike any he has seen - all of them had been bright heavy and gaudy. Yet this, oh, this one reminds him of the woods. Its chain is silver links carved like fine stems with delicate leaves branching out. They reach down, down toward a point where more silver leaves gather in, turning into teal green leaves that cradle a deep pink gem, pretty as a flower. It belonged in a meadow, not here, lying upon a table. Without a thought the boy lifted the piece from the table. It is mere chance the vendor was looking the other way. Slowly Leonidas meanders on, lost in the beauty of the necklace, until he looks up, at Aspara and the boy she laughs with.
That strange feeling comes back, hot and unwelcome. It pierces deep, makes his skin itch. He moves toward them, suddenly wanting her attention, suddenly knowing why he picked this necklace. Suddenly bold, suddenly on edge, he steps up beside Aspara, pressing his muzzle to the curve of her neck. He inhales her, she smells of smoke, of strange, city things. He huffs and pulls away, casting her a sideways glance. She might be pretty but her smell was a hard thing to tolerate. Proudly he holds out the necklace to her. He likes the way it looks, framed against her skin. Suddenly curious, suddenly feeling a little strange again, he casts a glance to the boy beside her.
Leonidas dares not open his mouth, not at the moment, not when his voice was doing strange things. Sometimes painfully low and only occasionally normal. He didn't like to speak, not since girls had laughed at him on his playdate with Nicnevin. Instead, he fixes the boy with a stern look before turning back to Aspara, hoping she likes the necklace he chose for her.
I knew well how tricky the island could be, how dangerous. How the more benign it appeared, the more it was hiding. I almost died there once. I’m certain I would have if it were not for Furfur and the cloaked (and daggered) stranger. In another of the island’s variations I saw my death played out in many ways, most of them unpleasant. This time, I knew, was different. This time I was more adult than child. I stood tall, lean and sharp as a scythe, my horn pointed straight and certain to the center of the island. I was the arrow that knows its target before the bow is even drawn. I knew my destination.
I was going for the heart.
Furfur and I were both restless and eager, spurred by some strange drive both of us felt keenly but could not define. Despite this we crossed the bridge at a walk, self-restraint clear by the tension knotted in our shoulders. I knew this was a thing that should not be rushed. Water dripped from the ceiling of the massive cave, rhythmic and lulling, a subterranean music that could drive someone mad if they stayed and listened too long. I felt compelled to sing, to speak, to scream-- anything to drown out the weeping walls. I held my silence, and we passed through in peace.
The outskirts of the city were eerily still. The wind managed to touch without touching- I felt its caress on my cheek but my long mane was not stirred. Even the dust remained still where it lay, stagnant in its corners and alleyways. My magic was stronger now than the last time I was here. It leaned into the stone walls and the walls leaned back, straining against their nature. A younger Aspara would have stayed and listened. She would have coaxed the stories from the walls, and then she would have walked among the abandoned marketplace and listened to each and every story of each and every ware. I’m certain she would have learned a lot about this place, but when she left she would still feel empty and unfulfilled. Like a cup with a hole at the bottom, filled with water but never able to sustain it.
Good thing I was older and my soft edges had begun to harden and sharpen. I paid no mind to the meandering alleyways that beckoned to my sense of adventure. I sent Furfur ahead to scout out the glowing castle that loomed watchful and terrible as the stories I’d heard of dragons. The bad kind of dragons, not like Fable. (at that time I still saw things as good and evil. I had begun to see the true nature of things, but I did not yet understand what it was I saw.) As he silently loped ahead, I followed slow and steady, head low and swinging gently back and forth like the hangman’s noose.
The massive doorway stood open and gaping, a hungry mouth leading to a dark and welcoming gullet. The heart would be someplace beyond. If I closed my eyes I think I could have felt its pulse, echoing from deep within the stone. Did it know I was coming?
I think so.
I did not pause or hesitate or linger. I passed the threshold, into the great entryway, and only when I was inside did I stop. A lush red carpet swallowed the plod of my steps. “Furfur?” When I prodded the darkness with my thoughts, I had the strange feeling that the castle was listening to me. Then, when my wolf did not respond, I had the shuddering thought that it was laughing.
I was angry. I placed my horn to the velvet carpet and I asked it, with the strength of a demand, “Where is my wolf.” It shivered and buckled, reaching for me then away, away, away, its grains shifting like sea grass to point deeper into the keep.
The work of the eyes is done. Go now and do the heart-work on the images imprisoned within you.
~Rilke
When told your sight will be taken from you in just a few days time what are the last things you want your eyes to see? I went to the sea, the woods, the dawn, the sunset. I roamed as far as i could in the hours when the sun was at its most beautiful. I watched the faces that I loved the most. I ran to find my child, desperate to see its face before i could no more. But the child was not mine. It was a curse and a gift. I never thought for a moment the child would not be mine. I had never dreamed that whilst I was foolish enough to fill myself up upon love and never give a thought to the consequences of letting myself love two women, that Elena would be so much like me. The child belonged to another man. At least I did not lose the opportunity to look upon my child when my sight is taken from me.
The ground his hard and cold and stark beneath my knees. As I kneel in the dark of the crypt I close my eyes and remember the sunrise. No sooner have i closed my eyes then i open them again. No! I drink in the dark of the tomb, its dimly lit walls, the altar of Calligo slick ebony marble and obsidian stone. It gleams in the firelight. For all the darkness here, it is not as whole and consuming as the eternal darknes that awaits me. I let my eyes look, i let them see the colours, the shadows, the light and the beauty, even here, underground. This is the last place that I will see. I will not close my eyes.
I force myself to look up. Up higher, Tenebrae. I look up to the Magesterium. They stand before me, adorned in satin cloaks, perfect as midnight, trimmed in moonlight silver. Their eyes glow white, their half moon sigils light the darkness. At my back my brothers stand in a half-circle. They are solemn and silent, they know my sentence, they know my misdeeds.
I should be filled with shame. The light that gleams from a vial one of the bishops holds tells me I should. I have shamed the Night Order by breaking my vow to Caligo. I may not be the first Disciple to desire a woman. But I am the first to lay with one. I should be ashamed, the vial tells me I should. It’s light, Solis’ light mocks me - so why do I feel such little shame? Why is it that the only thing I regret is not being able to look upon Boudika again?
Memories of her are not enough. They fade with time, their colours become muted, the details hazy. I already live to regret the day I can no longer remember what she looks like. My heart clamours, terrified within my chest. I will not cry. This is what I tell myself when my eyes sting and my sight becomes blurry. I will not cry and lose all that I see now, the last things that I see.
Light glimmers of Caligo’s altar. It catches my eye (maybe the last thing that will). I look to it and pray to my goddess as i stare at the beautiful marble. I pray for forgiveness, I pray that she takes my memories too, so that i may not grieve what i have lost sight of. Yet i know my prayers are in vain. This is the art of my punishment, this is its whole meaning. I am here to be blinded so that I might forever be consumed by Caligo’s darkness - that i might always be focussed upon her darkness and not tempted by material, mortal desires.
My shadows tremble around me, they know, they know what is to come. I am afraid. No, I am terrified. I feel it in my limbs, my body trembles with the anticipation - not of the pain of the act, but what comes after. Darkness, unremitting darkness. I will be lost to another world and I am not sure I am ready. My sight is the price I must pay to remain a monk and being a monk is all I have left. I have strayed from my goddess, I have not been dutiful nor disciplined.
You do not understand duty, or even discipline.You don’t deserve to look at me.
And Boudika is right. I tip my chin up to the Magistrate who steps forward. I am ready to learn duty and discipline. I am not worthy to look upon the girl who haunts my heart, who scars my throat. The Magistrate looks upon the marks with a sneer and i do not flinch. She has put the sea in my heart and in my blood. I will hold the vision of her body as long as I can, even as it fades.
My eyes drift to the vial of liquid light. Solis’ magic gleams golden from within it. It seems fitting that the liquid light that will take my sight is as pure and beautiful as Elena’s golden skin. I look up.
Posted by: Amalthea - 10-03-2020, 03:57 AM - Forum: Archives
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The building had worn many faces over the years, not all were permanent but many had stuck on and never let go.
House, home, shop, workshop, nursery, empty, full. All layering over each other like the rings of a growing tree, compressing down until they were one thing, Meraki Memories.
It was an odd looking structure made of stone, wood, daub and wattle. Each piece of wood on the outside seemed to be stained a different hue then sealed with wax to protect it, creating a muted patchwork of colors around what sides of the shop that were not made of stone. Above, the roof had a thin layer of moss and earth growing over it, dotted through in places with strategic clumps of perennial flowers to further add color to the strange building.
Everything about it was mismatched but tasteful, ludicrous but welcoming. This little shop hidden away within the twists and turns of the capital.
And within?
Wooden floors that had seen many a hoof over the years and a wide room, surprisingly much less colorful than the outer skin. Handles branched out from each wall and curled amongst each other in deliberately woven and carved spirals that held the reason for the rest of the room's relative plainness.
Shimmering, like oil over dark water. Glittering, like distant stars given form. The room was built to give them the spotlight.
On many of the more prominent display hooks and loops hung pieces of jewelry, all uniquely made by the equines who lived there. Necklaces, bangles, cuffs, rings and more. A fair portion of which also had inset gemstones that flashed in the light.
This was Amalthea's home where she had spent most of her life, and also where the pale furred unicorn worked. A straw broom was secured in her mouth as she swept the floor with a concentration usually reserved for foxes hunting mice beneath snow.
It was important to keep the store clean, especially with her grandfather out buying supplies. She was the only one there to keep any dust at bay!
Besides that, who knew when the next customer would walk in. It could be any minute now, and when they did, it would certainly not be to a dirty floor!
I fell in love with the holy trinity: the sun, the moon and you.
A
s the husband of Mrs. Mirvan had borne so large a share in the disagreeable altercation, Lord Orville forbore to make any comments upon it; so that the subject was immediately dropt, and the conversation became calmly sociable, and politely cheerful, and, to every body but me, must have been highly agreeable:-but, as to myself, I was so eagerly desirous of making some apology to Lord Orville, for the impertinence of which he must have thought me guilty at the ridotto, and yet so utterly unable to assume sufficient courage to speak to him, concerning an affair in which I had so terribly exposed myself, that I hardly ventured to say a word all the time we were walking.
We were not joined by the rest of the party till we had taken three or four turns around the room; and then they were so quarrelsome, that Mrs. Mirvan complained of being fatigued and proposed going home. No one dissented. Lord Orville joined another party, having first made an offer of his services, which the gentlemen declined, and we proceeded to an outward room, where we waited for the carriages. It was settled that we should return to town in the same manner we came to Ranelagh; and, accordingly, Monsieur Du Bois handed Madame Duval into a hackney coach, and was just preparing to follow her, when she screamed, and jumped hastily out, declaring she was wet through all her clothes.
"O never mind the old beldame," cried the Captain, "she's weather-proof, I'll answer for her; and besides, as we are all, I hope, English, why she'll meet with no worse than she expects from us."
My time in the lands of Novus so far had been fairly uneventful. I had yet to meet the teacher I had come in search of, even though I believed I had found the home I had been in search of. I still couldn't be sure that I had found the place I was meant to belong in. Until then, my limbs would continue to carry me through these strange lands until I found the answer to all of my questions.
Today I found myself trudging across this land bridge. The salty brine that caressed the edges of the rocky soil sprayed up and stained my midnight coat the color of the darkest ink as it lapped and wore away at the stones holding my frame up from the depths of it's embrace. Nervous energy danced across my synapses, something about this bridge seemed wrong, as if some magical being had placed it here rather than mother nature herself. But yet, I found myself ignoring my common sense and moving forward, allowing the need for adventure and excitement to overpower the portion of my brain telling me to turn around and run as fast as I could back to solid ground.
The salty, maybe even slightly fishy, scent of the ocean tickled at my nose, a gentle threat of the watery death that rested only a few mere feet on either side of me. The ability to swim meant very little when the watery depths decided that they wanted to get to know you better, for this exact reason I found myself avoiding water much deeper than a lake unless I had to. Apparently, today, I had to. A sigh of relief escaped from between ink stained lips as my hooves hit down onto the solid ground of an island that the bridge had connected to. As my feet hit the ground the sky above me swirled with dark, dangerous clouds, the sound of thunder rumbled off in the distance. "Fuck." I muttered under my breath as flame colored eyes searched for shelter during this bought of bad weather.
There seemed to be little to protect me from the dangers of a storm while on the ocean, until my eyes fell upon the mouth of a cave. Dark ears flicked forward then slammed back into beach-y waves as a crash of thunder rolled over my head. I moved forward quickly into the cave, only to be met by darkness. My throat tightened momentarily before I forced myself to continue walking, eventually the darkness opened into a surreal lighting from lit torches along the walls leading me into a room.
Every fiber of my being ushered me back to the safety of the mainland, to run from this empty room. A misshapen throne set before me. The stones were placed haphazardly and sea grasses sprouted between the cracks, their shadows dancing in the light of the flickering torches, but noone sat upon the throne and as far I could see...I was alone...
speech
let my heart bleed out
till there's nothing left
« r » | « image » | tag; @Saphira | words; 505 | notes; eeeeee, I hate writing starters. Let's see what trouble they can dig up in this creepy place.
Time is a matter of perspective. To a mayfly, 24 hours is an entire adult lifespan. They only ever feel sunrise on their wings once. To a bristlecone pine, a decade passes like nothing. An exhale, a sigh, the blink of an eye. Centuries slip by quietly, shed with the routine insignificance of snakeskin.
To a horse, it would be fair to say it took Picoro a Very Long Time to get to Novus. Which was to be expected, sloths being what they are. But step by step was the only way for him to get Luvena, so step by step he went. He marched with such single-minded focus that time passed as in a dream, whereupon waking you can’t quite tell the difference between minutes and weeks- you feel a little like a mayfly, and a little like a bristlecone pine.
It was a cold winter day when Picoro knew, with a certainty only a bonded could experience, that Luvena was close. “Luvena?” He tested their bond with a tug that she might feel physically as though there were a string tied round her heart. But there was no response, and nothing else for him to do but keep moving, step by step, now with renewed vigor for he felt his journey was so very close to an end.
It was later that day, not long before sunset when the wolves came. They were thin, ragged things, bones poking through thin white and grey coats. At the first sight of them Picoro had taken to the treetops, where he could stay for days if necessary- although he fiercely did not want to. He was close to his bonded, even closer than before. He just knew it. He wanted to keep going. “Luvena, can you hear me?” He called into the twilight, growing frustrated as darkness began to fall and the wolves pressed closer. They were not particularly impressive animals. The pack was hungry and tired and worn paper-thin by desperation and a hard year. Maybe he could take down one of them by itself, but with all of them together… he would be forced to wait them out.
The snow began to fall heavily, blowing sideways in gusty whirls of white that came in bursts thick as fog. With every lift of the weather, no matter how brief, he imagined he saw Luvena charging through the night, coming to chase off the beasts and carry him home. But she was never there. “Lu…” He tried again, growing cold and tired. As though the wolves sensed his exhaustion, they began to howl. One by one they tried to climb the tree, but all who neared the sloth were greeted by a surprisingly nimble swipe of his sharp claws.
Picoro did not know how long he could keep it up. He had overcome every other obstacle in his path to get here, and he was certain that if he could just survive, his bonded would find her way to him through the storm Or the next day, when the weather cleared and the wolves lost their patience, he would keep going to her. And when they were reunited, every struggle and pain and frustration would be worth it.
@Luvena might feel the pull of her bonded and feel joy that he has found her again. And then she might feel worry at the situation in which he is waiting for her to find him...
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