With his life at last laid bare, Len wept. In his tears was a sorrow Kassa never thought could exist, yet here it was. She recalled, with irony, the words her mother once told her – that it took a man to cry. That to cry was not a lesson in humility. Nor was it a demonstration of weakness, but a sign of admittance, of acknowledgment of the obscene.
What did it matter anyway? When it was only them, beneath the waning moon and the flickering flames of a lonely fire? There was no one to see or care but she and her lover, two people bound together by the chains of tragedy and ongoing disaster.
And love, of course. Who could forget that? Kassa’s face kept its serene expression, but inside she was cold with a foreboding fear. Her gaze into the future condemned her, and while she refused to cower in the face of the oblivion awaiting her, how would Len handle it? When it came to claim her, what sort of tears might flow then? He refused to leave her, and she could no longer doubt his love for her, nor she for him, but everything seen now had to come to a bitter end.
But Len was a man, she thought, a great man with a greater destiny. What sort of destiny she did not know, but without a doubt there was something waiting for him. His awakening, his resurrection, was merely a catalyst for something tremendous. She was just a bystander. He would recover, and move on, and find his way. He was strong enough, more than he knew.
Still, he wanted to hold her, and she complied. If she couldn’t always be there for him, if she couldn’t promise she would be there forever, she could at least give him that.
She laid on the ground, curling up against him, hands against his chest as she kissed him. With it she placed a very clever trick, something she had learned long ago, on her own. Without the help of any dark source.
Dark… dreamless… sleep.
A gentle breeze blew over them as she closed her eyes. The fire spurted up once more and then died, leaving them in the perpetual darkness of the night and their own unspoken fates.
When the sun rose the next day in welcoming warmth, it was to the sound of the creek and a second crackling fire. A breakfast of spicy soup and ripe fruit was ready.
As he, under much prodding, ate and she readied the horses, she asked him a question not founded of jealousy - there was naught to be jealous about - but of idle curiosity.
“Tell me about her, darling. What was Yura like?”
What did it matter anyway? When it was only them, beneath the waning moon and the flickering flames of a lonely fire? There was no one to see or care but she and her lover, two people bound together by the chains of tragedy and ongoing disaster.
And love, of course. Who could forget that? Kassa’s face kept its serene expression, but inside she was cold with a foreboding fear. Her gaze into the future condemned her, and while she refused to cower in the face of the oblivion awaiting her, how would Len handle it? When it came to claim her, what sort of tears might flow then? He refused to leave her, and she could no longer doubt his love for her, nor she for him, but everything seen now had to come to a bitter end.
But Len was a man, she thought, a great man with a greater destiny. What sort of destiny she did not know, but without a doubt there was something waiting for him. His awakening, his resurrection, was merely a catalyst for something tremendous. She was just a bystander. He would recover, and move on, and find his way. He was strong enough, more than he knew.
Still, he wanted to hold her, and she complied. If she couldn’t always be there for him, if she couldn’t promise she would be there forever, she could at least give him that.
She laid on the ground, curling up against him, hands against his chest as she kissed him. With it she placed a very clever trick, something she had learned long ago, on her own. Without the help of any dark source.
Dark… dreamless… sleep.
A gentle breeze blew over them as she closed her eyes. The fire spurted up once more and then died, leaving them in the perpetual darkness of the night and their own unspoken fates.
When the sun rose the next day in welcoming warmth, it was to the sound of the creek and a second crackling fire. A breakfast of spicy soup and ripe fruit was ready.
As he, under much prodding, ate and she readied the horses, she asked him a question not founded of jealousy - there was naught to be jealous about - but of idle curiosity.
“Tell me about her, darling. What was Yura like?”