She says "Don't--" as he suspected she would, with all the heat of the fires that once burned to ash everything he knew. He smiles sadly. Sorrow is a part of him that will never be erased, not for all the heartbreaking don'ts in this great, beautiful world. He thinks she knows that. He thinks she feels it too. Is that not what drew him to her, their first night together? He couldn't not be sorry, just as much as he couldn't undo the scars carved into his skin.
(even if he could-- would he?)
Eik's flight up the mountain should have left him exhausted, but adrenaline still electrifies his nerves and sends his thoughts in a hundred directions. He wants to make sure Isra is okay. He wants to stay here forever with her and leave the world to its ruin. He wants to run and run and not ever stop until the shapeshifter is between his teeth. The dragon's cold touch on his forehead does not settle him but he is grateful for it nonetheless. A sort of understanding is growing in him, but it does not yet have a name.
When he turns around he studies the dark, graceful line of his love's lips, and he recalls hearing secondhand (not just once but many times) how stories flowed from them like water, and he wonders if she will ever tell this one or if the truth will stay between them...
And when he rethinks his thoughts, pacing back and forth without moving a muscle, he realizes that he doesn't understand the word truth. Or rather, a new understanding dawns. Because Raum could not know the truth of this story without understanding how fate came to weave the lovers together, and Eik could not know the truth without seeing how the blood poured from Acton's body. And Isra could not know how she looks more beautiful, not less, for the dirt and grime that cover her and the tangles in her mane and the glint of war in her eyes.
(And he thinks he might not ever tell her how stunning she is in this moment, how much she moves him. It feels right to keep something to himself-- how easily most things spill out of him, in her presence.)
The illusion of truth collapses, and he finds himself holding pieces that do not perfectly fit together. Maybe she will tell this story to him some day, and the course of events, shaped by her words, might finally make sense.
Eik's attention moves from her lips to the delicate but determined line of her jaw. He knows she could be ruthless, if she wanted to-- if she needed to. And maybe his heart should sink in recognition of the gears set in motion. Maybe he should recognize that the odds are against him, in life, in love, in all of it-- and he never was a gambling man anyway, never liked the idea of chance making decisions for him-- but hell, he'd stake his soul on her. Over and over. Until the end of days.
She kisses him on the cheek. He thought that his blood, in all its passion and fury, had boiled over to rust. So oh, what a surprise it is, when he feels it surge in and out of his tissue-paper heart. He leans in to her touch, and then steps past it and alongside her to rest his head on her withers. "Can you... create water?" The limits of her magic-- another thing they've never talked about. Another thing they never needed to. "Or can you make it to the stream?"
They will rest, and recover, and weave plans. They will mourn. They will have vengeance and it will be wicked, and it will be sweet.
But first, they will have a bath.
E I K
"Like the sea of my life waters had opened up.
Like my wounds had something in them besides hurt."
(even if he could-- would he?)
Eik's flight up the mountain should have left him exhausted, but adrenaline still electrifies his nerves and sends his thoughts in a hundred directions. He wants to make sure Isra is okay. He wants to stay here forever with her and leave the world to its ruin. He wants to run and run and not ever stop until the shapeshifter is between his teeth. The dragon's cold touch on his forehead does not settle him but he is grateful for it nonetheless. A sort of understanding is growing in him, but it does not yet have a name.
When he turns around he studies the dark, graceful line of his love's lips, and he recalls hearing secondhand (not just once but many times) how stories flowed from them like water, and he wonders if she will ever tell this one or if the truth will stay between them...
And when he rethinks his thoughts, pacing back and forth without moving a muscle, he realizes that he doesn't understand the word truth. Or rather, a new understanding dawns. Because Raum could not know the truth of this story without understanding how fate came to weave the lovers together, and Eik could not know the truth without seeing how the blood poured from Acton's body. And Isra could not know how she looks more beautiful, not less, for the dirt and grime that cover her and the tangles in her mane and the glint of war in her eyes.
(And he thinks he might not ever tell her how stunning she is in this moment, how much she moves him. It feels right to keep something to himself-- how easily most things spill out of him, in her presence.)
The illusion of truth collapses, and he finds himself holding pieces that do not perfectly fit together. Maybe she will tell this story to him some day, and the course of events, shaped by her words, might finally make sense.
Eik's attention moves from her lips to the delicate but determined line of her jaw. He knows she could be ruthless, if she wanted to-- if she needed to. And maybe his heart should sink in recognition of the gears set in motion. Maybe he should recognize that the odds are against him, in life, in love, in all of it-- and he never was a gambling man anyway, never liked the idea of chance making decisions for him-- but hell, he'd stake his soul on her. Over and over. Until the end of days.
She kisses him on the cheek. He thought that his blood, in all its passion and fury, had boiled over to rust. So oh, what a surprise it is, when he feels it surge in and out of his tissue-paper heart. He leans in to her touch, and then steps past it and alongside her to rest his head on her withers. "Can you... create water?" The limits of her magic-- another thing they've never talked about. Another thing they never needed to. "Or can you make it to the stream?"
They will rest, and recover, and weave plans. They will mourn. They will have vengeance and it will be wicked, and it will be sweet.
But first, they will have a bath.
"Like the sea of my life waters had opened up.
Like my wounds had something in them besides hurt."
@Isra <3
Time makes fools of us all
