Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The cold air is thick with a tension of both mourning and jubilation. It is a strange juxtaposition to have emotions so opposite to one another sharing the same breath, intertwining in every word, every movement, every look. But what else is to be expected on a day like this, a day that many were either anticipating or dreading. A day that would mark a bright future for most, while simultaneously being the worst and final day for a select few.

Among the small tribe, there is one yurt in particular with its fire and candles still lit, glowing warmly in the dark winter night. Sobs and cries filter into the wind, carried away like powdery snow into the trees. The soft rustling of the thick fabric and the swaying of leaves against bark composing an ominous requiem for the family. Yes, it is a day of mourning for them.

You rock back and forth, the figure in your embrace shaking with uncontrollable sobs. Gently petting their hair, you attempt to bring comfort, knowing it’s impossible. Your own cheeks are stained with tears, reflecting against the gentle glow of the fire. A few more slip past your lashes, following the same trail down to your chin.

It feels a little strange, seeing someone so broken and inconsolable over your death. Getting to see exactly how those that care about you would react if you were to pass away. It’s a sight you wish you never had to see, almost making you regret your earlier words. But what’s done is done, you have already made up your mind. No matter how much it pains you, no matter how much you hate it, you know it’s the right decision.

“Y-You cant!” The girl in your arms stutters out between sobs. “I won’t let you!”

You begin to rock her back and forth again, suddenly feeling very tired as you let out a sigh. The both of you have been over this for the past hour. She’d try to convince you to change your mind, you’d stand firm and logically reiterate your decision, she’d burst into a fresh set of tears, and you’d wrap her in your arms once more. It would be annoying, but this is your closest friend, a sister really, and she’s experiencing the loss of you before you’ve even passed.

She should have known you’d do this for her. Sacrificed yourself for her sake. Giving your life away to keep hers. It’s what true family would do. Although you are not related by blood, the bond you share with her and her father is stronger than oak. A true sister in every aspect, a true father in every semblance of the word. You’d die for both of them. You already have…

“It’s not fair!” Your sister continues to sob. “Why have the gods cursed us?!”

Staring into the dying fire, you simply hug her closer, eyes burning as your tears dry and cease. After a few more hours, she finally falls asleep in your arms, tiring herself from the emotional event. With gentle movement, you place her atop her mat, covering her with a woven blanket. You then make your way to your own mat, slipping between the furs to get warm. Although you don’t sleep much, instead your mind decides to bombard you with thoughts and images of your imminent death.

You see, your tribe is cursed. It apparently began over a thousand years ago. The chieftain at the time had killed a dragon that resided in the Akso Mountains, the closest range that nearly surrounds the valley the tribe resides in. That dragon he slayed turned out to be the mate of a very powerful ice dragon god. Because his mate was slain, he cursed the tribe with a harsh and merciless blizzard, raging winds and endless snow. The crops died, the hunters were unable to bring back game, many froze and starved to death. It seemed as though they were cursed with an endless winter.

Finally, the chieftain took his eldest daughter who was unmarried up the mountain. He dressed her in the traditional wedding dress, adorned her with beaded jewelry and fine furs, and covered her head with an intricately embroidered kerchief. Atop the mountain, he offered his daughter to the dragon god as a bride, as an offering to cease the winter. The dragon god accepted and requested that a new bride be given to him every hundred years. She must be the eldest daughter of the current chieftain, as he was the one who committed the crime and must pay repentance.

Since then, every hundred years the eldest daughter of the chieftain is given as a bride on the third month of snow fall. Thus, the curse is lifted and the harsh winter dies down, eventually leading to spring. Many told the story to children who misbehaved, threatening to take them up the mountain to the dragon god. Others simply thought of it as a tall tale passed down through generations, each time adding something more ridiculous. Who would believe a dragon god lives in the mountain and reigns over winter? Or that the tribe is cursed?

You thought the same. That it was a made up tale that started as something somewhat true and spiraled into an outlandish fable. Until the chieftain, your surrogate father, came into the yurt with a solemn countenance and tears brimming his eyes. What you once believed was an old wives tale quickly became a cold reality. He believed the story, was given specific instructions passed down from chieftain to chieftain. It was time, a hundred years have passed, it lands on him to send his eldest daughter up the mountain to be the next bride.

Of course, you both argued over the validity of it all. How can he possibly think of sending her away? He’s never personally seen this so called dragon god. There’s no proof that preforming this twisted ritual will ease the harsh winter, or that any of this is necessary in the first place. But your pleas fell on deaf ears, stating he did have proof but he couldn’t show you as it is only privy to the current leader. He’d already accepted the inevitable, already mourned the loss of his only child, the last connection he has with his long lost wife.

Only he forgot he has two children. One by blood and one by heart. He had so openly accepted you into his family when your parents had passed away from an unknown affliction that nearly wiped out half the tribe, his own wife included. You were only eight, barely understanding the concept that you’ve been left alone in the world. Much like his own daughter, not comprehending her mother would never wake up at the age of five. With open arms, you became a part of the broken family, together helping soothe the open wounds in your hearts.

Like a father he raised you with love and attention, teaching you to hunt and fish, to survive in the harsh wilderness no matter the season. And like a father and a chieftain, he guided and disciplined you as was necessary, teaching you the values and morals of humanity, making you the woman you are today. Just as he taught you to be kind and generous, selfless when you are able, you decided to take your sisters place. You are older after all. The responsibility should fall on you not her.

You remember the silent tears that fell down his face as he embraced you, his warmth bringing a slight comfort. He was mourning the loss of one daughter as much as he was relieved he hadn’t lost the other. His tears both showing sadness and happiness. You both knew it was the best option. Although they have become your family, you are alone, no one with the same blood to tie you here. Your sister still has a father who loves her dearly, and a potential husband if the constant attention a certain warrior has been giving her is any indication. She has a future here… you do not…

Sleep finally comes to you, letting you rest for a minuscule amount before you are suddenly shaken awake. Blearily blinking, you slowly adjust to the dim light. A few of the older women stand around you, waking you to follow them, to begin the preparations for this momentous day. As you make your way outside to another yurt, you notice the sun still hasn’t risen in the horizon, your breath coming out in white puffs in the cold air.

They usher you inside another yurt, a large wooden bath standing to one side, a roaring fire blazing in the center immediately warming your cold bones. The women begin fussing around you, helping you strip naked and pushing you into the warm water. It’s not big, but just enough to submerge yourself if you hug your knees. They pour some fragrant smelling oils into the water, placing a cloth in your hand to scrub yourself with. You take your time bathing, your movements robotic as you are still half asleep and feel as if you are in a dream.

Once they’re satisfied, they signal you to come out of the water, wrapping you in a rough woven blanket to dry. Placing you near the fire, you sit idly as they move around you, gathering the necessary items and laying them out for easy access. The silence is deafening, again reminding you that, although you are being prepared as a bride, the aura feels closer to a wake. There will be no joyous singing or music, no grand feast to celebrate, no words of congratulations or advice.

One of the women helps you stand, finishing drying your body as best she can. They all start helping you change, adding layer after layer of the beautiful outfit. First the underclothes, then the warm shirt and pants made of animal skin and woven wool. Finally, the heavy dress is wrapped around you tightly. The thick beautiful fabric is heavily embroidered with colorful threads and beads, weaving intricate traditional patterns and motifs along the neckline, waist, cuffs, and hem. The sleeves are a little too long, but the skirt ends just above your ankles, thankfully giving you a bit more freedom of movement in the snow. It’s truly breathtaking.

“This is your wedding dress, as it was your mothers, and her mothers before her.” One of the women states with a forced smile.

A rich green sash is tied around your waist, adding more embellishment and color to the ensemble. Even though the thought of wearing your mothers wedding dress should bring you some joy, it only emphasizes how wrong this whole situation is. Not only is she no longer here, but you think the last thing she’d wish to see is her daughter being sent to her death as a bride to a dragon god that may or may not exist.

Feeling a tug on your hair, one of the women begins combing through the slightly damp strands, the soft floral scent indicating some oil was used. Another woman joins in and they both work on braiding your locks. You stand as still as possible, still feeling as though you’re stuck in a dream, none of it feeling fully real. They finish with your hair, unable to see what it looks like, but not caring either way.

They place a large and heavy necklace atop your chest, securely tying it on your nape, the colorful beads placed in beautiful rows almost like a spiders web. Instead of making you feel beautiful, the weight makes it feel like a noose, a final sentence to your impending fate.

Lastly, they place the traditional kerchief atop your head, tying the two strands together in the back. You’re positive it’s just as intricately and beautifully embroidered as the dress, a few strands of beads delicately dangling on your forehead, barely peeking into your vision. The kerchief acts as a veil, completing the look of a beautiful bride. There was no need to go through this much effort for a corpse. But you assume they merely go through the usual traditions to try and soften the blow, give the girl one final time of happiness before she is sent away.

The women gather in front of you, admiring their work. They give you compliments, praising how beautiful you look, how lovely your mothers dress is, how much you look like a perfect bride. They ring on hollow ears, everything sounding like crunching snow and whistling wind. Once your fur skin boots are on, they escort you outside, leaving behind the warmth of the yurt.

The sky is lighting up with yellow, the sun starting to rise, shadows from the trees stretching out like hands against the pure snow. The powdery white landscape begins to twinkle like shinning jewels, the soft crunching of footsteps almost melodic in the quiet air. You swear you can hear the gentle drip of ice melting, adding to the ethereal surroundings. The gentle rustling of the branches acting as bell chimes. What a perfect wedding…

You all quickly reach the edge of the tribe, seeing a small group of villagers gathered as if to see you off, though their expressionless faces show they are merely there in body not in soul. Definitely not a celebratory wedding; a quiet and somber funeral. That is accentuated as you hear the not so quiet sobbing of your sister. Making eye contact, she runs to you, throwing herself in your arms. You hold her tight, memorizing the feeling, her scent, her warmth, the sound of her voice.

“It s-should be me!” She wails, burying her head in your neck. “It should b-be me…”

Gently patting her head, you mechanically attempt to soothe her again, knowing you feel just as torn inside but tears refuse to come. You’re numb, trying to cope with the reality of the situation smacking you like frigid water. This is really happening, you’re really standing here in a wedding dress about to be sacrificed because of an old tradition.

“You know it has to be me.” You say stiffly, the numbness nearly sticking your tongue to your mouth. “I love you.”

She cries out more intensely, the high pitched groan echoing against the trees, the gentle rustling now sounding like mocking laughter. An elder woman pries your sister out of your arms, hugging her close as she signals that time is up. The chieftain steps forward, giving you a solemn smile. He hands you the reigns to your trusty reindeer steed, Mulby, his back already strapped with a few bags of items.

Hearing the sound of hoof beats and snorts, you watch as the chieftain and two other elders of the Council mount their reindeer, turning back to watch you. With practiced ease, you get on Mulby, adjusting yourself as the wedding dress is different then your usual attire. You make eye contact, a single nod the only signal that you’re ready.

With a gentle click of tongues, the four of you set off towards the Akso Mountains. There are no cheers or waves of goodbye as you leave the tribe, no joyous wishes of good luck for being a bride. It is complete and utter silence, though you swear you hear the soft muttering of prayers filtering in the wind. The whole thing feels like the final pouring of dirt over your grave. You just left behind everything you’ve known, the only people you’ve called friends and family. Yet only one of them showed any emotion, only one attempted to stop you…

The sound of slow galloping and snorts fill the air as you ride. Not a word is spoken, though you prefer it that way. You doubt you’d be able to muster a conversation in your current numb state. What is even to be said under the circumstances? Nothing comes to mind; words of consolation would feel empty, and light pleasantries would seem callous. No, silence is better, it allows you to truly let your mind wrap itself in a blanket, attempting to shield yourself from the future trauma.

The group rides the whole morning, stopping for a brief reprieve at an open clearing to rest and eat a light meal. Silence is still present, almost as if everyone collectively agreed to not utter a word, making the whole affair that much more solemn. Continuing to ride, you all reach the foot of the mountain as the sun is setting, quickly making camp and building a roaring fire for warmth and cooking dinner. Although you don’t have an appetite, you assist the chieftain in preparing the meal, your movements robotic as you’ve done it a thousand times. A simple bowl of broth with dried fish and rough grain is shared amongst the group of four.

You huddle into your tent, wrapping your crude fur blanket around your body that you made yourself. You’re somewhat used to sleeping out in the wild like this, your adoptive father having taken you on many a hunting trip. This felt different of course. You are wrapped in a beautifully crafted wedding dress instead of your comfortable fur coat and woven pants. You will wake up to continue the journey to your death instead of returning home.

Not sleeping a minute, you get up before everyone else, monotonously putting away your things and restarting the fire. The others soon join you, the only sound the crackling of the fire and the occasional ting and scrape of cooking and eating. Again, you barely manage to swallow a single strip of jerky. Once everything’s packed, the journey continues, making your way up the mountain at a steady pace.

You thought the climb would be more steep and dangerous, but it is surprisingly gentle in incline, the reindeer having no issue ascending. Before the sun has reached its highest point, the chieftain and the elders come to a halt, making you suddenly tug on Mulby’s reins. They all dismount, tugging their steeds along as they continue up the path on foot. You follow their actions, your heart starting to race as you realize you’ve nearly reached the end.

A short walk leads to a wide open space in the mountain, two peaks towering on each side. The middle looks like a crudely made circle, somewhat flat and large enough to fit half the tribe comfortably. You wonder what caused the strange landscape as it didn’t look man made. The two elders move to the side, one of them taking the reins of the chieftains steed.

Your adoptive father moves towards you, his face crestfallen, tears threatening to fall. He wraps you in his embrace, giving you a final goodbye. You stand frozen, unable to move as everything comes crashing into you at once. His shoulders gently shake as a soft sob leaves his lips. That finally breaks you, returning the tight hug as your own silent tears roll down your cheeks. You’re both too overwhelmed to say words of comfort or affection, the words “I love you” too much to utter without risking turning around and forsaking the ritual.

As you both begin to sigh and take deep breaths to compose yourselves, you feel something smooth and heavy slipping into the sash of you dress. Looking between your bodies, you catch the slight glint of a hunting knife being hidden in the fabric. Before you can say anything, he hugs you closer, silently telling you to stay quiet. He leans into your ear.

“If you get an opportunity, take it, fight.” He whispers so softly you barely hear him, placing a soft kiss on your cheek.

He lets you go, giving your arms a final squeeze before leading you towards the center of the open area. You tug Mulby along, unsure if he should come with you or not, but seeing as none of the others come to take him you think it’s okay. Reaching the middle, the chieftain motions for you to kneel, obeying while carefully adjusting the skirt of your dress. Your grip on the reins tightens until your knuckles turn white, your heart rate picking up as the weight of reality settles on your shoulders.

The chieftain takes a few steps away from you, making you feel alone, a shiver running down your spine. Suddenly he begins chanting in an unknown language, the strange words echoing in the air, amplifying his voice. You focus your gaze to your lap, breath coming in harsh pants as anxiety creeps into every nerve in your body. Feeling like the chanting lasts an eternity, you nearly scream when you feel the ground begin to shake and rumble. Closing your eyes tightly, you clasp you hands together in front of you, whispering prayers under your breath, your whole body shaking like a sapling in a blizzard.

An earth shattering roar deafens your ears, your natural instincts to flee running through your veins, but you are frozen by fear, rooted to the spot. You hear Mulby neigh and whine, feel him tug on the reins in your hand as he tries to run away, but your grip is deadly. There is a heart piercing silence, the ringing in your ears from the earlier noise ricocheting in your head. An extreme gust of wind blows through the area, nearly making you fall back.

You hunch forward, attempting to block your face from the frigid wind, the sound of twinkling ice and flapping mixing with the whistling of the gust. This can’t be real. It’s impossible for the story to be true. You swear your heart stops beating when the ground shakes more fiercely, an enormous weight landing in front of you with a thud, the vibrations felt in your muscles. Without moving your head, you look up between your lashes, trying to catch a glimpse of what just arrived.

Enormous claw like feet, white and pale blue scales, and a shadow that nearly blocks out the entire sun. You quickly look back down, your heart nearly jumping out of your chest. So it’s true! No, it can’t be! Tightly shutting your eyes, you take a few deep breaths, trying to steel your resolve. If you are about to be sacrificed to this thing, you might as well stare it straight in the eye. You don’t want to give it the satisfaction of seeing you trembling. Inhaling one last time, you shoot up, standing with all your strength and tilting your head up to look at the monster.

Your breath catches in your throat, the world around ceasing to exist, your blood running cold. It was majestic. It was the largest thing you’ve ever seen. It was most definitely…a dragon. Standing tall, its head could almost reach the tip of a fully grown pine, easily towering over someone who is thrice your height. It’s body shimmered like snow in the sunlight, a mix of white, light blue, and grey scales littering its body. Sharp claws adorned each extremity, a paw easily able to crush your head with ease. It’s massive wings stretched and flexed to fill the entire other entrance, nearly blocking out all sunlight, the tips appearing to have crystals of ice fanning across almost like feathers. On its head were two large horns of ice with a few smaller ones jutting between them, making it look almost like a crown.

Speechless, you continue to take in its massive form, still unable to comprehend that this is real. The story was true. An ice dragon god does exist in the mountains. Moving back to its head you catch its eyes. The most beautiful mix of green and hazel, reminding you of peridot gemstones you once found. It stares into your soul, making your breath leave your lungs in a huff. You forget to breathe, continuing to stare at the dragon. Slowly the edge of your vision turns black, the feeling of weightlessness overtaking your body. As your eyes roll back, you hear the faintest rumble, the world becoming unknown.

The first thing you feel is the pounding pain in your head, the constant thumping making you groan. Your body feels heavy, and a dull soreness spreads when you try to move your left arm, every muscle stiff. Blinking languidly, you slowly adjust your blurry vision, taking your time to scope your surroundings.

It’s quite dark, some soft candlelight flickers and ebbs against a rocky wall. You feel something soft beneath you, a form of bedding perhaps, and a thin wool blanket wraps you in warmth. With a wince, you turn your head. From the looks of the rough texture and the dark grey coloring you are in some sort of cave, no sunlight or moonlight evident anywhere. The strong scent of herbs and something medicinal hits your nose, almost making you scrunch your face.

Slowly, you lift the blanket to asses your condition. The wedding dress is intact, no tears or rips and hardly any dirt on the hem. With careful movement, you sit up, a slight pained groan escaping your lips as you feel your head spin. Closing your eyes, you lift your hand to caress your forehead, the texture of cloth meeting your fingertips. It’s different from the fabric of the wedding kerchief. Before you can examine it further, a rough voice echoes against the cavern walls.

“Don’t move too much. You’re still hurt.”

With a jolt, your blood freezes in your veins, heart giving a shudder. Instinctually, you wrap the blanket around yourself, almost like a shield, eyes moving frantically around the space searching for the owner of the voice. Breath quickening, your mouth dries, tongue sticking in place. You hear soft footsteps approaching, almost as if trying to be quiet. Gradually, a figure steps out of the shadows into the candlelight.

He is most definitely a man. Tall, able to tower over you with ease, broad shoulders adding to his imposing physique. He’s dressed in a simple dark blue knee length overcoat, the fabric rich with white and silver embroidery. It looks almost foreign or ancient in design, hardly resembling what the men in your tribe wore. Simple dark blue pants and skin boots complete the ensemble.

With hesitation, you look up and meet his gaze. The most beautiful green eyes stare back at you. The color reminding you of budding grass in spring, a hint of warm sunlight yellow highlighted by the candlelight. A bit of his midnight black bangs falls over them, hiding a good portion of his forehead. His nose is strong and straight, sharp jaw and defined Adam’s apple accentuating his masculinity. To say he was the most attractive person you’ve ever laid eyes on is an understatement. He’s ethereal in his features, having never seen anyone who looks remotely close to him.

“W-Who are you?” You stutter out, still enchanted.

He carefully comes closer, almost as if afraid to scare you further. His face stays stoic, though you catch his gaze looking you over with a hint of concern, slightly furrowing his dark brows. You notice he focuses his attention on your head for a lingering moment, before meeting your gaze once again.

“I am the dragon that resides in these mountains.” His soft voice has an edge of roughness, almost as if he hasn’t used it in a while. “I think I’m safe to presume you are the bride that was given to me.”

Your brows knit together and your eyes narrow in suspicion. How can that giant dragon that you saw earlier be the man that stands before you? Although your mind and reality had been broken by finding out a dragon did exist, it was a leap for you to now believe that same dragon can shape shift into a human.

“Prove it.” You demand.

With no hesitation, he lets out a soft sigh, closing his eyes, his dark lashes fanning over the top of his cheeks. In a glimmer of soft light, you see ice begin to form on his head, the large horns jutting out, while a few white and pale blue scales bloom across his temples and chin. Opening his eyes, they glow more yellow, the pupils turning to thin slits. Just as quickly, it all disappears, making you think you almost imagined it. But the slight chill in the air, and the color of his eyes matching the dragons, reminding you it’s anything but a dream.

“So if I’m to be your…bride, what does that entail?” You swallow thickly, the reality of your new situation baring on your shoulders.

“Nothing. You can leave when you wish.” He states matter-of-factly, softly brushing his hair as if to remove any ice that remained from his display.

“W-What?” You blink at him owlishly.

“I do not require a bride. It’s a foolish tradition. Rest for a bit, you took a fall when you fainted. But as soon as you feel better, you may return to your family.”

With that, he turns around, allowing you to see his long hair tied in a ponytail, and disappears into the darkness, leaving you alone once again. You stay still as stone for a few moments, waiting until the sounds of his footsteps become silent. As soon as you know he cannot hear you, you break out into wailing sobs, the overwhelming emotions of the past days finally bursting forth. You relish the moment to release everything that’s been pent up, the sadness, the grief, the fear, the disillusionment.

You don’t know how long you cry for, but eventually your tears dry up, leaving you feeling empty but relieved. Now you can think clearly, process what has happened and plan your next steps. First, you bring your fingers to your head, tapping around to feel the cloth. Wincing in pain, you gently press down near your left temple, a jolt in your nerves letting you know you’ve been hurt. You did faint on the mountain, perhaps hitting your head on the rock when you fell, and that would also explain the soreness in your left arm.

If you fainted, then that must mean the dragon—human?—brought you into the cave. Judging by your bandaged head, he also treated you. A sudden wave of panic enters your mind as you quickly check the sash of your dress. Hidden in the fabric is the hunting knife the chieftain gave you. Letting out a sigh of relief, you remove it and put it under the covers. You lay back down, bringing the blanket up to your chin as you stare at the rocky ceiling.

Now what can you do? You might be well enough to travel tomorrow, though it would be hard without any supplies or Mulby to ride, most likely taking days on foot. Can you really leave though? He did say you can go, but a seed of doubt still lingers. You saw he is a real dragon, has true power. Who’s to say he won’t retaliate and attack the tribe if you were to flee. No, it’s too soon to try and run. Better to wait and see if it’s truly safe.

Plus, the prosperous future of the tribe depends on this tradition, you can’t simply go back and expect everyone to be happy about it. They might think the dragon didn’t accept you as a bride and send your sister up the mountain, the very thing you wanted to avoid by volunteering yourself in the first place. Exactly, the best option is to stay. Take it day by day, reassess at a later time, and then take action.

Once your brain has logically thought through your next steps, you find yourself relaxing. All the earlier stress, anxiety, and tension has left your bones, being replaced by comforting reassurance that you know you have a plan. Your breathing evens out, the warmth of the blanket enveloping you, closing your eyes as sleep overtakes your weary soul.

Zayne quietly enters the cavern room, careful to mask his steps. He doesn’t wish to wake the sleeping guest residing inside. With light feet, he makes his way to the bed of furs, kneeling down and placing the torn cloth and wooden bowl he was holding on the ground. Taking as slow and silent movements as possible, he gently unwraps the bandages from around her head, checking her wound.

It seems as though the bleeding has stopped, coagulated blood protecting the small gash at her temple, some spots of purplish grey surrounding the area no doubt leading to bruising. Carefully dipping two fingers into the wooden bowl, he gathers a dollop of the poultice he made, smoothing it over the injury with featherlight touches. Once satisfied, he wraps a fresh strip of cloth around her head, trying his best to not wake her.

Being this close, her scent hits him again. It’s…different from the other women they have brought as brides. She smells of nectar, sweet like the sap that drips from the trees, and like warm sunlight after a rainy storm. Spring, she smells of spring; of budding growth and melting snow. Her scent makes him feel…

Shaking his head, he casts aside that fleeting thought, concentrating on making sure she will get better. She’s going to leave anyway. Most of them do. Others have resorted to more…tragic ends. A jab in his heart reminds him he has failed to save those few. Even though he gave them no hindrance to their freedom, they still chose such a gruesome route.

A small murmur breaks his melancholic thoughts. Her brows furrow and lips purse, as if experiencing a nightmare. Unable to resist, he softly rubs his fingertips on her forehead, wishing to comfort and release her tension. Her face softens, a soft huff leaving her plump lips as she relaxes once more. His fingers gently graze her cheeks, his mind getting lost. He feels different about her. Maybe, just maybe…

Releasing a breath through his nose, Zayne gets up, grabbing the old cloth and bowl. He double checks to make sure the candle has enough wax to last most of the night in case she wakes and wishes to leave. Turning to return to his quarters, he pauses at the entrance. He cranes his neck, looking back at her sleeping figure one last time. Perhaps… Maybe, she’ll be different. Maybe…she’ll be the one who stays…