02-21-2022, 04:22 PM
Her statement that heaven would not welcome her evokes a short sound from his chest, something almost like a laugh though it is more of disbelief than any kind of real humor. “If heaven did not let you in it would only be out of jealousy,” he says with a surety that leaves no room for argument. There is nothing that she could tell him that would make him believe otherwise; nothing she could ever say that could dim the light he sees her in, or the dream-like haze where memories of her lived.
When he had asked her if she had planned on staying he had been steeling himself for her answer. He had been prepared for a sad sort of smile and a shake of her head, to be reminded that things like moons and stars don’t stay and cannot be kept. And he would have accepted it, would have nodded in understanding, because she had never really been his, and he had always found a way to be okay with that.
It’s why when she suggests they stay together—for a while, not forever, he reminds himself—that a look of surprise breaks past the guarded, stoic expression he always wore. It twists at something in his chest and he forces himself to nod his head once, bridaling the strange emotions that he can never find the name for so that his voice is level when he says, “Of course.” Yet before he can stop himself he has stepped forward, closing the distance between them and reaching to touch his muzzle against the top of her neck. He lingers there for what he is sure is several heartbeats too long, and when he draws back it is not entirely, remaining close enough that she could still hear the lowered tone of his voice when he asks her, “Where do you want to go?” He himself has never really lived anywhere; he had been born in the now non-existent valley, and had tried living in his father’s tundra, but it had not lasted. These new lands he has passed through but never stayed, but for her, he will show her anywhere. “Mountain or forest, ocean or snow…we can go wherever you want.”
When he had asked her if she had planned on staying he had been steeling himself for her answer. He had been prepared for a sad sort of smile and a shake of her head, to be reminded that things like moons and stars don’t stay and cannot be kept. And he would have accepted it, would have nodded in understanding, because she had never really been his, and he had always found a way to be okay with that.
It’s why when she suggests they stay together—for a while, not forever, he reminds himself—that a look of surprise breaks past the guarded, stoic expression he always wore. It twists at something in his chest and he forces himself to nod his head once, bridaling the strange emotions that he can never find the name for so that his voice is level when he says, “Of course.” Yet before he can stop himself he has stepped forward, closing the distance between them and reaching to touch his muzzle against the top of her neck. He lingers there for what he is sure is several heartbeats too long, and when he draws back it is not entirely, remaining close enough that she could still hear the lowered tone of his voice when he asks her, “Where do you want to go?” He himself has never really lived anywhere; he had been born in the now non-existent valley, and had tried living in his father’s tundra, but it had not lasted. These new lands he has passed through but never stayed, but for her, he will show her anywhere. “Mountain or forest, ocean or snow…we can go wherever you want.”
— LEND ME YOUR HAND AND WE'LL CONQUER THEM ALL,
BUT LEND ME YOUR HEART AND I'LL JUST LET YOU FALL —
BUT LEND ME YOUR HEART AND I'LL JUST LET YOU FALL —
@Ethenia