Leander’s gaze remained downcast until she next spoke, her voice a melodic rhythm that quiets the rushing in his ears when she tells him not to be sorry. He looked up then and saw her wading toward him. The river rippled softly around her movements as though the waters were made for her, creating a fabric that trained gently about her hips – dark silk scattered with starlight. Undeniably, and despite the melancholy that had been stirred by the mirrored wounds etched upon their hearts, Eilidh was a part of the night’s somber beauty.
Disarmed by the way her words expressed how he felt about losing his parents so precisely, the brown of his eyes deepened with feeling. “It’s the same for me,” he said quietly. Then Leander extended his muzzle to close the small distance she had left between them, his breath warm against hers. He was affected by the commonality they shared, and it only seemed natural that they would share a moment of intimacy like this – and when he drew away, he didn’t go very far.
“What was her name?” It was a gentle question. While he didn’t want to cause Eilidh further grief, Leander found he would like to know it – as though hearing it would serve as a tribute, somehow – and in return he offered, “Riagan was my father, and my mother was Rayelle.” His gaze drifted to the river then, his mind sifting through memories.
“I wonder what they’d say to us right now,” he mused, his eyes slowly finding their way back to hers. He didn’t truly expect an answer – for he was sure they could both imagine them saying a thousand different things. After all, imagining was the easy part. The hard part was knowing that they would never hear their voices actually say anything again.
