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He laughs, his exhaustion broken a moment by her sudden good humor. The laughter and the relief are only for a moment, however, and he rises slowly to his feet. The sound of her cries still rings within his ears and even this weakness in his limbs speaks of his rapid movement to break her fall. “I am no child to be so easily put off,” he smiles and grasps her hand in his own. Peeling back the dressing and exposing the deep cuts on her hand, he speaks quietly, “These are no mere scrapes, woman.” He waits for her to look at the cuts before replacing the dressing. Gently he touches her cheek and turns her face near his that he might again feel her breath. His voice, still low, takes on a building firmness, “And there is more than a simple cup of wine upon your breath. No, KayLisa, you were troubled well before my own cry broke the afternoon’s stillness, so troubled you nearly lost your life .....” The look of resignation she wore as she fell rises in his thoughts and he moves quickly away from her, his control slipping.
“Have you been denied death so long that you will so easily surrender to its call? Know this, then,” his voice rises and the air gusts around him, “I will not surrender you so easily into any arms other than my own, be they those of death or those of destiny.” His body shakes, longing to burst from its exhaustion into stormy movement, but he remains standing before this one whom he will not lose. “No, woman,” his voice grows quiet once more, “I will not lose the second half of my heart.” He moves slowly toward her one more, stepping behind her and wrapping his tired arms around her. Turning her toward the tiny dance of flame and wind – All of the spontaneity of flame alive in wind – his own thoughts of the morning strike him once more. “Sof’ya,” he whispers and his breath moves to the dance and mingles with the tiny wind, “Sof’ya ush’a ha’shama’im.” The flame grows suddenly larger and brighter, warming in turn the breeze and lending new vigor to its movements. The smile returns to his face and the mutually embracing movements of wind and flame leave the localizing runes and sweep through the clearing, provoking a startled response from Grounder. He holds her without speaking until flame and wind bear one another back to the runes she has traced in the earth. “Nothing moves with the freedom of wind,” he whispers over her, “nor, does anything dance with the beauty of flame.”
Releasing his embrace he moves to face her. He raises his burned fingers to the place on his forehead which bears the outsider mark and touches it. His touch moves from the rune to her lips, “Unseal them, woman, and speak to me.”
[ 04-01-2002, 11:12 AM: Message edited by: Cyril Darkcloud ]
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