|
Fire. Its heat and its vigor are hers. It s passion and its spontaneity; it’s warmth and its consuming urgency, these are hers as well. Still he is surprised by the warm clasp of her hand upon his knee – a warmth which stops short of burning intensity despite its time within the flames. He places his own hand, a hand whose burns have but recently healed, upon it as she speaks. There is a storminess within the purple of her eyes as if the aspect of thunderheads has taken residence within them and as she speaks there is little he can do save what he has always done, and so he turn his face fully into the storm indicated within her troubled eyes.
Storm. For all its violent danger it is free with a freedom he knows. This at least is familiar, whatever else may lie behind it and his eyes flash in response to and recognition of the storm within hers. She places one hand upon the place wherein the child grows even as the other is thrust into the flames. Reaching around her he places one of his own hands upon that one of hers which rests over the child. With his other hand, he reaches into the stinging flames to interlace his fingers with hers. He winces at the burning heat as he draws her hand from the flames. “Then we shall go to this old man of yours,” he says softly.
He falls silent, then, simply content to hold her a moment. Breathing deeply, he touches the cloud shaped clasp upon her cloak, the clasp he has given her. “You must keep your thoughts shielded from the Devourer, then, so that he may not easily find this Fay’re,” and tightening his grasp upon her hand he adds, “nor strike at the child within you.” He smiles then, a strangely relaxed smile. “But enough of such grimness. For where life finds breath, life finds hope and the breathing between us is strong.” Falling silent once more he presses his lips gently against the runic mark upon her forehead.
|