02-26-2022, 07:41 PM
Amet
Amet remains in the heart of the Meadow for so long, unsure of whether to roam familiar routes of the past or stay in place to get his bearings. His inaction helps with the latter - and truth be told, the idea of facing Hyaline after a lifetime away fills him with such an uncomfortable combination of emotions that he tries to avoid the thought altogether. The windswept grasses of the early autumn keep him company as he stands and grows accustomed to the feel of it against the leather of his folded wings. The occasional horse passes by, some meandering and some in quite the hurry, but by this point he has given up trying to search their faces for something familiar. He simply remains, breathing it all in.
Until his unfocused chocolate eyes register a smokey black shape forming just at the periphery of his vision. He thinks for half a second that it’s nothing, that it’s another unfamiliar traveler passing by, but there is nothing he can do to stop his curiosity from flicking his gaze in the direction of the movement.
Amet’s sepia eyes are met with silver ones.
Those silver eyes.
His breath stops in his throat and his eyes refuse to blink, afraid that taking his gaze off the woman before him for even a millisecond will cause her to disappear. He is flooded all at once with too much: too much shame, too much love, too much sorrow, too much fear. They had not met their end amicably, relishing in the privilege of being a couple who’d realized their love had run its course. No, there had been pain.
She had caused some but he – undoubtedly, he had caused more.
When she moves her wings to cradle herself, his bated breath finally expels as if he’d been punched in the chest. But he does not move otherwise, afraid to scare her away. Afraid that, despite the palpable tension that flows over the Meadow’s grasses, that she may be part of a fever dream.
He has spent a lifetime away.
“Ciri…” Amet finally whispers, his tone overflowing with all things hopeful and warm and sorrowful, surprised to find his voice works regardless of the way they scrape against his dry mouth. “Ciri,” he repeats a second time in disbelief of the name that falls from his lips after he’d been certain, so certain, he would never utter it again.
You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
@Ciri
