His eyes flit over her, ever the vigilant guardian, ever the benevolent King.
Her wings are sodden and heavy, hollow bones laden with feathers and muscle threatening to drag her down, down down, into the cool depths. Down into silence eternal and the promise of peace. What she would give to allow that to happen, what she would give to not have to fight anymore.

If only there was enough of her left to give to make a difference.

The water rippled and attention snapped back to the towering form of her King, muscles tense and rippling beneath damp flesh. His eyes were clouded, his face drawn and steps hesitant. The dove blinked, a small sort of confusion blossoming over pained features. What had him in such a state? Had Mauja… Had Rexanna…? Had someone else hurt her mfalme? Had she left them? Had she failed him yet again?

But his eyes stayed glued to her, to her soaked skin and her shuddering sides.

At last he reached her, his valiant dove turned waterlogged wraith, his massive bulk crowded her, ensnaring, protecting. There he held her, once again a King and his dove, embracing in a desperate plea for absolution. His lips are gentle, mane tugged and wing lifted, all at once soothing and mandatory; she would not find what she was looking for beneath the waves, she would not descend into that endless night, no, and that was a direct order. Yes, that was a command, sovereign to soldier, caregiver to patient, lover to loved.

Orithia risked a glace down at herself, a silent gasp parting her lips as she took in her rawness, her crazed vulnerability in the face of one she cared for so deeply. Any confusion she had at his worry evaporated, grim understanding taking its place upon her shoulders. The blushed mare could feel his voice in her chest, the deep vibrations of his words pressing against her heart. I am thankful for you. Her eyes slid closed, delicate skin pressing against the onslaught of tears, and the precarious sense of self that she had built up against and again – only to be shattered against her own self-doubt.

Again. Again. Again.
Oh, please, not again.

Rose tinted eyes flew open at the soft pressure of Tembovu’s lips against her own, a pressure she had refused to admit had haunted her dreams and lingered behind her breath. She wanted to fall into him, to live in the space between his heartbeats and witness the lights in his eyes. But the silence was short, and the echo of words she had spoken fill an empty space; a promise she had made once upon a time on an icy shore. She couldn’t help it; she snorted softly, a dry laughter budding behind lips that were slowly remembering how to smile. Damn him, the beautiful beast with his stubborn loyalty and his depthless heart. Damn him for proving himself as her savior yet again.

In his eyes she sees promise and she sees pride and she sees hope. In his heart she knows she would see truth.

He lifted her chin, yet her gaze remains downcast, watching his battle-scarred chest lift and compress with each breath -  the courage to meet his eyes  had faded with the realization of her folly. Had she truly thought that she could just leave? Just like that? Had she thought that she could leave in such a way and not hurt him?

Fury, cold and cruel and aimed at herself, slithered into the mare’s stomach. How could she? How could she be so consumed with herself? With a shake of her dished skull and a stubborn set to her jaw, Orithia pulled away just enough to meet Tembovu’s gaze. With a solemn nod, she began to slowly extricate herself from his grasp and make her way toward the shore. “Mfalme,” her words were low but steady, any trace of the shattered woman she had been was gone,”I am sorry for worrying you… For hurting you in this way.” She emerged from the pool with water running from coral skin in rivulets. Her hooves sunk into the damp sand as she turned toward him the gentle giant that, against every possibility, had found a home within her bruised heart.

“I met my mother,” it was best to get to the point, she reasoned, best to admit to him the truth behind her existence, “In a vision from a sorcerous child of death. She betrayed her clan for the sake of my birth. Yet my father was no what he seemed, as you know. He destroyed her once I was born, raised me into the history you’ve already heard.” Her gaze lingered on the sharpened tip of Tembovu’s horn, “It seems I did not take the news well. Again, I am sorry. I was not myself.” She found herself yet again drowning in the blue of his eyes, memories of their short time together stoking the embers in her belly to light.

To hells with it. To hells with all of it.

With a breath, she loosened the stringent control she had over herself, crushed the walls she had built and let herself feel. She let him in.

The truth flooded her, washed over her in a wave that was all at once overwhelming and peaceful. At last, absolution. At last, love. Her lips pull into a wry grin, revelations filling each crack and crevice through which pain had invaded. His touch, she sighed, it had always been the same to her, burning in a way that was anything but painful. From the moment they had met – he the suspicious king of a glass-spattered forest, she the sullen bride of massacre – he had engulfed her. His presence consumed her, setting her to dance upon plains of magma and splintered dreams.

But he could heal those dreams. She knew that now just as some small, secret part of her had known it all along. Together, they could create hopes and futures built from the remains of their pasts. They could forge empires between their passion and knit one another back together. Back to whole. Back to good.

He could help her heal and she could give him the world.

“I have seen your son, Tembovu - Sweet Hawezi – and I have committed the crime of loving him.” Oh, how her soul shook, terrified and glorified beneath a sky open to possibility, “I have committed the crime of loving you. I know this is wrong, I know you are a King with two Queens and two children – memory and present. Yes, I know.” She took a steadying breath, breathless before the plummet from a cliff she could not see the bottom of, “but late at night, what is left of my heart’s hope tells me that you are mine, Tembovu, and I am yours.” She sighed, her expression torn between sorrow and joy, agony and relief, “I do not have a choice in loving you as I do, beautiful mfalme, you have given me no choice.”

Eyes alight, she turned her head, raising a sodden wind and proffering her warmth, her body, her soul to him, “And if you would have me, I would like to know what it feels like to love.”