tenebrae
let everything happen to you, beauty and terror, just keep going, no feeling is final
She stirs and the movement swirls the dust that has settled around her, on her. The dust motes rise in a swirl. Her light captures them, illuminates them as they dance their slow, slow dance.
He does not see the dust rise, but he tastes its tang upon he tongue. He does not see Moira rouse, but he feels the movement of her against his mouth. She turns from statue into life. it began with her defensive magic, that at first resisted, fought against his magic in ways it always has. But then, recognition seeped in, warm and welcome. And so darkness swirls with light as the two Denoctians meet again. His name rises between them, a question spoken through barely conscious lips.
Are you real? She asks another question. I was dreaming.
He wants to smile. He wants to make light of her words that run them both through upon the same, terrible blade. Of me? The words are there upon his tongue, begging to be spoken in jest. But he knows the truth. They are cursed to be alone even in their dreams. Tenebrae, once-monk and eternal sinner, was never in Moira Tonnerre's dream. There is no space for jesters here.
Hot breaths twine and muzzles brush as she lifts her face to him. He drinks in the smell of her, light and incense and holy stone hidden beneath her tang of dust. lowering his forehead to her brow, Tenebrae presses his half-moon sigil into her skin. It gleams at their touching. "I am here now. Real. Do you believe it?"
