Elchanan
some melt stars for crowns
This place is unimpressive. In the few moments that Elchanan is left to stand in silence in the high-ceilinged halls, that is the thought that crosses his mind—it’s not much—and wonders, not for the first time, how anyone can be happy in a place like this. Not just Samaira. Any nurse, any doctor, who volunteers to live in an oppressive swamp filled with sickly people, must be a little sick themselves. Why anyone would choose a life like this when there are lovers to meet, dances to attend, spells to be woven—well, there’s no reason good enough.
Sunlight filters in through the slimmest of cracks in the stone ceiling. The watery yellow glow tumbles down from above and splashes onto the floor, lighting up patches of still-damp moss that cling to the cobblestones and the droplets of dew that quiver on top of them. The black ring of hoofprints marks a well-worn path from the doorway deeper into the building; it would be easy to follow. But instead the priest waits patiently in the arched entrance, ears pricked forward as the sound of footfalls fills the hallway, and a tall, slender shadow descends from the staircase.
Elchanan smiles, and it is nearly genuine. The sharp edges of his teeth flash brighter than ivory as he looks at her.
There is a brief moment, a heartbeat, in which Elchanan could swear the doctor’s step falters and her eyes widen in surprise. It sends something through him, a bolt of electricity, a visceral spear of pleasure—a blood-satisfaction without blood (so far). He tries to wrest the smile from his lips, tries to keep his dark eyes somber. Perhaps it works; perhaps it doesn’t. But still he meets her gaze with uncanny ease, dropping his head to his chest in a quick kind of bow and blinking those dark eyes with dark sincerity, voice calm and soft as silk when he says: “Ah. Samaira.”
She looks the same as ever—mystical, of-the-earth, crowned in flowers. The silver of her eyes seems to glow in the dim light, and the tattoos on her cheek stand especially bright against the brown of her skin. For a moment the distance between them is frozen, insurmountable, for Samaira has stopped walking halfway down the hall. Elchanan wants to move but won’t. He straightens his posture and blinks calmly. It is like hunting something. Like trying not to startle the deer away from the path of the arrow.
Stay still and they will come to you instead.
Are you injured? she asks, and Elchanan shakes his head instantly, confidently. “Not at all,” he assures her. “I came to find you.” Then a smile—wide and unselfconscious, waiting patiently for her to draw forward. They have all the time in the world.
@
