The smoke of the dying fire tickled his nose as he awoke, the first soft rays of a lilac dawn glowing at the mouth of the cave. The world around him was still, silent. 

“. . . Urck. . .” His nose scrunched at the odor, groggily trying to regain the feeling of his aching, tired body. Sleeping on spiteful dirt and stone was miserable. He was filthy, having gone days without any proper bath or cleanliness to speak of, the ick and muck of the outdoors already ruining his mood. Yet, there was one little miracle tucked within his grasp.

Pulling back just enough to peer down at her, she was snuggled fastly to the nook of his chest. She looked so peaceful, the warm light striking her skin in a way that made her a goddess, the embodiment of the dawn and light and all things pure herself. 

Because that’s exactly what she was.  

(And what am I?)

He forced his eyes to trace the loosened bandages on her body, the feeble pallid nature of her skin, the way the meager stints on her legs were already on the verge of disassembling. Even in his arms, he was afraid that she might disappear into thin air; that this all was just another elaborate spell. 

Like a mirage.

He cursed himself-- how had that other wench convinced him to use a mirage to greet her that morning? How had she been able to overpower him so subtly that he fell so dumbly prey to her shallowly seductive charms? Undoubtedly, she was a vision; but there was no lack of beauty in his court. Sure she was witty and, to an extent, amusing; but what about her was able to veil his better judgements? 

He gently tucked her snoring head back beneath his chin and shut his eyes, stroking locks of hair and placing the softest of kisses on her scalp; he silently laughed, grinning against the crown of her head. She definitely had the similar scent of the . . . . ahem, “outdoors” as he himself had, but it only seemed to intensify the natural perfume of skin that he had adored since they’re shared childhood. 

Oranges. Blossoms. Freshly cut grass and shimmering verdant glades. Moonlight. Just how could a person smell like moonlight?

And yet, that was the only word that seemed to do her justice. Despite these circumstances, despite being covered in blood, sweat, and whatever shit else-- 

Subconsciously, he pulled a free hand to wrap around tinier fingers, pulling them up to rest between their chests. A silent covenant of faith. He traced the writer’s callus on her hand; hands that read him stories, cared for his wounds, curled themselves into the cutest little fists whenever she scolded him, that happily offered him . . . everything. 

Damn it. He bit his tongue as his body went rigid as the thought of her hands on his body flew into his mind. Now is definitely not the time. But it would have been easier to dam the oceans themselves as he felt the rush of heat on his skin, more keenly aware of how her hips were this close to his own. 

Gods, you must’ve been an angel sent from above. A temptress, an untouchable deity sent to torture him in the worst — and the best— ways possible. 

And by the light of the stars on high -- her lips. One of the first things he remembered so vividly was the heat of her plush mouth against his own; feeling the velvety texture of  rosy cheeks against his face, drinking in the tongue and taste and sighs and soul through that fleeting moment of ardor. It was obvious how unskilled she was — was that her first kiss?— obvious in the ways her body trembled with the slightest squeeze or caress, the way she was so pliant and willing. 

But infinitely more than the tease of flesh and unfulfilled lust, what he remembered the most was—

He pulled her in closer, wanting as little space between them as possible; but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. He wanted to melt away the physical bonds of flesh and bone and sinews, their hearts left bare to each other. The honest, untainted truth of their souls, mixing and combining until they were indistinguishable from one another— together, finally.