Fragments: Choices
Another chapter, from way further back. Might almost be ready to thread these badboys!
The Choices We Make
“I love him, you know.” It was difficult for her to look him in the eye, but she did it all the same.
“I know.” His hand was soft at her cheek, fingers tender as could be. The both of them were battered in so many ways. Bruised and bloodied from the fight, and in that moment, tangled in the very thread that had long bound them together. “I love him, too.”
Maia looked frightened, an expression, he thought, which looked wholly out of place on her face. Perhaps it was that it was a rare thing, that he had never been so close to it. Perhaps it was that he was suddenly the cause. “Oh god,” she sighed, curling her fingers up into his shirt, earnest to her rotten core. “If I had to choose...if I have to-“
“You don’t,” he interrupted. “You never will.” It might seem strange that then, the Gypsy kissed her, as rapturously as ever he had, but it was truth in contact. They may never revisit this feeling, but they could not deny that it lived. Maia would only cling to him a second longer, and she pressed her ear to his chest to hear his pounding heart as he clung right back. His voice, like a purr, thrummed through him and into her ear. She felt at home.
“This spin of the wheel, Maia…it isn’t our turn in this life.”
Seven Days Prior
The Gypsy knelt before her, in silence. They both were shell-shocked from the battle, and stunned that they had both escaped. They had all escaped, though there had been bloodshed. The rest of the party doted over their recovered friend, but Maia sat away from the group, as she sometimes did.
He looked different to her, that morning. They were, all of them, weary as the day is long, and he wore it more plainly than he had worn such fatigue before. It haunted his eyes, like the hopeful melancholy that lay there, too. Maia had never been so grateful, in all her life. The witch had not undone this. Still they walked this mortal coil.
With great care, she removed the used bandage from his shoulder, and applied more of the pungent smelling poultice there. The dents and lines and curves…men had such beautiful shoulders and beautiful arms, especially men that used them. She tried to shake the thought as she wrapped a clean bandage there. It seemed so wrong, in a way, that violence would profane such a beautiful thing, but he would heal. His grace almost guaranteed that any mark left would be minimal, at best.
Their eyes locked then, a long quiet minute. His hand slipped beneath hers, palm to palm, a gesture that warmed and chilled her all at once. Maia nearly spoke, but that unsettling look on his face dropped to her raw knuckles. How evident that she had been in the thick of a fight. How natural that it would be all over her. He knew that she fought the same way that she did everything; with such commitment that it consumed all of her, head to toes. As she had tended to his shoulder, he tended to those bloodied knuckles in kind. There was nothing to say.
Two Nights Earlier
Why state the obvious? It was strange to think that in a day, the world as she knew it would be over, and she would likely be dead. The witch was powerful, dangerous, and well-guarded. To retrieve her captive was a brand of suicide, and every last one of them knew it. Maia found that she was free of fears, save one: a world without him.
The woman didn’t pray often, but in those black, sleepless hours, she spent some time on her knees, begging whatever god might listen to take her in his stead, to let her hand defend him, to let her strength be enough for both. Pain, blood, defeat: she could live with any of these things but to lose the Gypsy would be the death of all that was good in her. Maia felt this keenly.
Hours passed and God did not answer. He had never answered her. Maia did not wait to hear from someone she did not expect, and instead, she padded out of that tiny room in the inn and down the hallway to another. Maia did not knock, but rather just opened the door and let herself in. Even the jasmine near the door could not hide that scent. His scent. A smell like home. Maia nearly trembled at the taste of it, in the back of her mouth. It mingled strangely with her coppery, palpable fear.
“I cannot rest.”
“You never rest,” he replied. She could hear the smile in his voice before she could see traces of it in the moonlight that flooded through the unveiled window. He sat up, and patted the space beside him. Her fear was notable, and it gave him great concern.
“Maia?”
She caught his eye then, and there was a cast so grave to her expression that she held his attention, entirely. In even tones, she voiced these thoughts, so carefully rehearsed between her prayers.
“I would not ask you to sit this out. I know what your answer would be. I just-Oh god. Nobody in this world mattered, even a little, before you, and you must survive tomorrow. If you leave me in this world without you, I will not endure. I am not so strong as I look.”
“No. The woman I know is stronger, even more than she looks.” As he had at least a hundred times before, and wished he could at least a hundred times again, he drew the woman into his arms, and sighed. They held each other a while in silence. How grave it felt, and how strangely hopeful. The night before the world ends is a very unique thing, indeed.
He slipped his hand beneath hers, palm to palm. This gesture caught her eye again. She watched him with a moon-wide gaze. Maia’s fear had dissipated, though her heart pounded. His breath, a whisper. His hand was soft at her cheek, fingers tender as could be. “I love you, you know.”
“I know,” she said.
The Choices We Make
“I love him, you know.” It was difficult for her to look him in the eye, but she did it all the same.
“I know.” His hand was soft at her cheek, fingers tender as could be. The both of them were battered in so many ways. Bruised and bloodied from the fight, and in that moment, tangled in the very thread that had long bound them together. “I love him, too.”
Maia looked frightened, an expression, he thought, which looked wholly out of place on her face. Perhaps it was that it was a rare thing, that he had never been so close to it. Perhaps it was that he was suddenly the cause. “Oh god,” she sighed, curling her fingers up into his shirt, earnest to her rotten core. “If I had to choose...if I have to-“
“You don’t,” he interrupted. “You never will.” It might seem strange that then, the Gypsy kissed her, as rapturously as ever he had, but it was truth in contact. They may never revisit this feeling, but they could not deny that it lived. Maia would only cling to him a second longer, and she pressed her ear to his chest to hear his pounding heart as he clung right back. His voice, like a purr, thrummed through him and into her ear. She felt at home.
“This spin of the wheel, Maia…it isn’t our turn in this life.”
Seven Days Prior
The Gypsy knelt before her, in silence. They both were shell-shocked from the battle, and stunned that they had both escaped. They had all escaped, though there had been bloodshed. The rest of the party doted over their recovered friend, but Maia sat away from the group, as she sometimes did.
He looked different to her, that morning. They were, all of them, weary as the day is long, and he wore it more plainly than he had worn such fatigue before. It haunted his eyes, like the hopeful melancholy that lay there, too. Maia had never been so grateful, in all her life. The witch had not undone this. Still they walked this mortal coil.
With great care, she removed the used bandage from his shoulder, and applied more of the pungent smelling poultice there. The dents and lines and curves…men had such beautiful shoulders and beautiful arms, especially men that used them. She tried to shake the thought as she wrapped a clean bandage there. It seemed so wrong, in a way, that violence would profane such a beautiful thing, but he would heal. His grace almost guaranteed that any mark left would be minimal, at best.
Their eyes locked then, a long quiet minute. His hand slipped beneath hers, palm to palm, a gesture that warmed and chilled her all at once. Maia nearly spoke, but that unsettling look on his face dropped to her raw knuckles. How evident that she had been in the thick of a fight. How natural that it would be all over her. He knew that she fought the same way that she did everything; with such commitment that it consumed all of her, head to toes. As she had tended to his shoulder, he tended to those bloodied knuckles in kind. There was nothing to say.
Two Nights Earlier
Why state the obvious? It was strange to think that in a day, the world as she knew it would be over, and she would likely be dead. The witch was powerful, dangerous, and well-guarded. To retrieve her captive was a brand of suicide, and every last one of them knew it. Maia found that she was free of fears, save one: a world without him.
The woman didn’t pray often, but in those black, sleepless hours, she spent some time on her knees, begging whatever god might listen to take her in his stead, to let her hand defend him, to let her strength be enough for both. Pain, blood, defeat: she could live with any of these things but to lose the Gypsy would be the death of all that was good in her. Maia felt this keenly.
Hours passed and God did not answer. He had never answered her. Maia did not wait to hear from someone she did not expect, and instead, she padded out of that tiny room in the inn and down the hallway to another. Maia did not knock, but rather just opened the door and let herself in. Even the jasmine near the door could not hide that scent. His scent. A smell like home. Maia nearly trembled at the taste of it, in the back of her mouth. It mingled strangely with her coppery, palpable fear.
“I cannot rest.”
“You never rest,” he replied. She could hear the smile in his voice before she could see traces of it in the moonlight that flooded through the unveiled window. He sat up, and patted the space beside him. Her fear was notable, and it gave him great concern.
“Maia?”
She caught his eye then, and there was a cast so grave to her expression that she held his attention, entirely. In even tones, she voiced these thoughts, so carefully rehearsed between her prayers.
“I would not ask you to sit this out. I know what your answer would be. I just-Oh god. Nobody in this world mattered, even a little, before you, and you must survive tomorrow. If you leave me in this world without you, I will not endure. I am not so strong as I look.”
“No. The woman I know is stronger, even more than she looks.” As he had at least a hundred times before, and wished he could at least a hundred times again, he drew the woman into his arms, and sighed. They held each other a while in silence. How grave it felt, and how strangely hopeful. The night before the world ends is a very unique thing, indeed.
He slipped his hand beneath hers, palm to palm. This gesture caught her eye again. She watched him with a moon-wide gaze. Maia’s fear had dissipated, though her heart pounded. His breath, a whisper. His hand was soft at her cheek, fingers tender as could be. “I love you, you know.”
“I know,” she said.