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You lie in the soft brown earth, gentle grasses waving above your head, listening to the songs of nature. For a moment, you forget time. You forgive life. What a joy you are experiencing, hidden away in a forgotten corner near the lakeside. What a disaster not to be found.
Your bruised body is at war with the turmoil in your head, equally fighting for your attention. Your lips taste of copper, but the scent of honeysuckle hangs thick in the air, almost reminding you of your youth. Of peace. Almost. Your eyelids feel too heavy to open.
Exhaustion overtakes you, irresistible. Your head lolls to one side. An entire day you have spent; fighting, running, bending chaos with the palms of your hands, unleashing it against your enemies. Again, and again, and again. This time, though, your enemy had laid its ear against your heart and listened to its secrets. It had laughed at you, viciously, as it pierced your mind, and used your fears against you. Oh, the look in your eyes must have given it more pleasure than spilling your blood ever could have.
The terror you had felt, seeing visions as if they were all happening right in front of you. Wyll, the dagger you turn inside of yourself. Wyll, the subject of your waking dreams. Wyll, the axe to the frozen sea within you. Wyll, maimed and beaten. Lifeless, in a pool of his own blood. Beautiful face torn beyond recognition. Brilliant mind shattered irreparably. It is an image engraved into you now, and you want to scream with how much it feels like a prophecy, a warning, a promise.
You had slipped away from camp with an excuse, immediately after returning from the skirmish; haunted by the images thrust upon your mind. You had fallen to your knees, throwing up bile, chest heaving with the psychological trauma of it all. You can cope with many things, but matters of the heart, it seems, are a newfound weakness of yours.
Now you lie alone, blood soaking through the intricate patterns sewn onto your robes, dirt stains on your cheeks. You had been caught off guard easily, so you feel that the open wound on your chest is a well-deserved punishment for your own shortcomings. It is all too easy to give into the mental exhaustion. You close your eyes. You drift.
An orchestra of crickets and frogs isn’t enough to pull you out of the dreamless slumber you have fallen into. You do not hear the approaching footsteps. You do not feel the gentle, tender hand cradling your skull. You are lifted from the cold and unforgiving ground by strong and capable arms, and laid to rest on a soft bedroll lined with furs and wool. A fire crackles nearby. You doze.
A low, familiar voice slips into your consciousness, rousing you. Softly, gently.
“There you are,” it whispers, as your eyebrows knit together, and your eyelashes flutter, until you finally find the courage to take a peek at the owner of the voice you’ve grown to adore.
It is Wyll. Of course it is. It always is. Dimly outlined by the flickering lantern in his tent. A warm calloused hand brushes over your cheek. It is so tender, you almost flinch with how undeserving you feel being at the receiving end of it. A tear falls from your eye, swiftly brushed away by Wyll’s thumb.
“I know you are hurting. As though the weight of this unforgiving world rests upon your shoulders.” You hear water drip. Then, the cold kiss of a wet cloth against your cheek, wiping away the dirt, the blood, the tears.
“But you do not have to carry this burden alone. I will not allow you to,” Wyll says. It sounds like a vow, the way his words are laced with determination. “Do you not know by now, how I would tread every uncharted sea if it meant reaching you? Yours is the light I turn to when the night grows darkest. You do to me what spring does to the cherry trees.”
You process his words, and are reminded of nights spent stealing glances. Longing. Soothing whispers, only intended for your ears. You remember talking until sunfall, how he trusted you to keep his secrets safe. You remember the first time you saw him vulnerable, caught off-guard. You had urged him to rest with you; his head a welcome weight on your lap, as you tried to soothe him from Mizora’s torment. Your fingertips had gently traced his plaited cornrows, the curl of his horns. And Wyll - he had covered his eye with his hand, as if to entrap the two of you into the amber of the moment, hidden from the devil’s prying eyes.
You feel him radiate with a warmth that immediately makes you regret not having trusted him to take care of you, earlier. You would walk to the Hells and back to save him, but it terrifies you that for the first time in your life, the sentiment is reciprocated.
“I would always see you safe” he whispers, as careful hands unbutton your robes, lifting the fabric from where it sticks against your skin. You try not to grimace at the sensation of it. “Deny me bread or air,” he continues, “but never deny me to care for you, the way you care so much for this unfair and cruel world. My feelings will not be repressed.”
You reach up with your hand and cup his cheek, moved by the tenderness of it all. “Wyll,” you begin, as he leans into your touch, “I feel as though I’ve been hiding in the shadows for so long, I don’t know how to tread the path of the light.”
He reaches down, his lips a gentle pressure against your forehead. “Then let me be your guide. Let me show you how ardently I admire and love you.”
He parts layers of intricate cotton to reveal your injury, and takes care of you with a softness that makes you wonder how he keeps finding it within himself to be so patient, so loving, in spite of it all. He dabs a cloth soaked in remedial oils and water onto the gash, covers it with bandages, and helps you into something more comfortable. You say a quiet word of appreciation, as he instals himself at your side, and pulls you close against his chest.
“I cannot think of any greater happiness than to be with you all the time, without interruption, endlessly,” he whispers. You feel raw and vulnerable, like layers upon layers of heavy armour shedded to reveal a core of glass. You turn, so your ear is pressed directly against the beating of his heart. His fingers play with the coily hairs at the nape of your neck.
“I don’t possess your silver tongue,” you whisper, “but I hope my actions will prove that you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars.” He smiles at that, cradles you ever closer, as if to entangle himself with you like the roots of a vine. You allow yourself the enjoyment of inhaling his scent - cedarwood and oakmoss, of soaking up his warmth.
He kisses you, and you kiss him back.
“There isn’t a thing you have to prove to me. All you need to do is close your eyes, and sleep. I promise to be here; tonight, tomorrow, until the earth collapses, and beyond.”
You listen, and you do, pulling the blanket over your ears, hiding in the crook of his neck. When you dream, it is of doves and golden fields, and when you wake, he is there. He is always there.