we are slaves to the sirens of the salty sea
It is good that he does not call attention to the swell of her belly, because she would not be able to explain it. Would not have the words to describe the strange alienness of her life. The gravity that kept her at that little island, living underneath the sharp eye of Ivar, bearing his children year after year. How could she possibly explain a life to the man of shadow when she was incapable of understanding it herself?
He does not ask though, and she doesn’t answer.
Instead, the heaviness in her barrel is forgotten and she focuses instead on the feel of his shadows wrapping around her, pressing into her cheek. She notes the small differences in him but is unable to put words to it—does not understand what about him feels more substantial when so much of him is not.
“What would I give,” she murmurs, feeling his phantom breath rolling against her scaled shoulder. She has never though before of the concept of sacrifice, of the idea of having to give up in exchange for that which she wants. But she does now. She does because she cannot deny that, for the first time, there is a part of her that wants him. That wants to keep a piece of him for herself. That wants to understand it.
She doesn’t move toward him.
But neither does she move away.
Instead she sinks into the feel of his shadowy touch, the nothingness and weight of it. “More than you think,” she finally answers with a small smile, her lip tilting upward. “More than you know.”
