Challenge 016: Bloodline
Words: 746
Characters: Micaiah, Sothe
Time: Post-Radiant Dawn
Genre: Romance
A/N: I've had this idea for years, but never got
around to writing it before now. This is probably a
loose interpretation, but I hope it works.
Sothe was sleeping on her lap that evening. He was just drowsing, really; Micaiah didn’t know if he ever truly slept. He could always wake at such short notice. Idly she ran her fingers through his hair, over and over again. A gleam of silver caught her eye, and Micaiah paused, frowning. Carefully she isolated the gleam and pulled it out.
One of Sothe’s eyes opened. “What was that for?”
“Look,” said Micaiah. She extended the single strand of hair to him. “Your first grey hair.”
Shrugging slightly, Sothe took it from her and studied it carefully. “I don’t see what’s so special about it. All of your hairs are grey, after all.”
Micaiah laughed and bent to kiss his teasing smile. Her silver hair fell in a silken sheet around his face, and Sothe’s hands tangled through it, sliding away smoothly when she straightened again. Looking at him closely, Micaiah saw, for the first time, a few wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. Involuntarily her fingers brushed across them. His hands found her face too, and the skin there was still young and flawless.
“We won’t grow old together, Sothe,” she whispered. “You’ll never see my skin with wrinkles.”
“I’m surprised we’re still living and growing old at all, given our past lifestyle,” he said wryly, but she could only manage a brief half-smile. Sothe rose from her lap, sitting up straight and facing her. “Micaiah…”
“I have never truly hated my laguz blood before,” she said tremulously. His sharp eyes pulled at her. “Not when I had to always move from place to place, life to life. Not even when I was despised by so many. I chose to live among the beorc, not the Branded, and I do not regret it, but I… I…” She stopped to cover her face with her hands, tears leaking between her fingers. “I wish I didn’t have this blood inside me now. It’s selfish and wrong to wish such a thing - there should be nothing wrong with being both laguz and beorc - but Sothe, I want to grow old with you, I don’t want to live without you. I can’t. This blood that only I have… it will torture me when you are gone.”
Slowly she felt her hands being pulled away from her face by Sothe’s strong grip. He cradled her hands in his, stroking her callused palms. “Our blood is not so different,” he said. His eyes never left hers. Inexplicably, Micaiah heard the click of a knife emerging from its scabbard. Sothe’s face remained impassive.
“Sothe…?”
She glanced down. He held the knife tightly in one hand, and without hesitation, drew it lightly across his other palm, a thin, shallow line of blood welling up where he had cut. Wordlessly he flipped the knife deftly and offered it to her by the hilt, still never looking away from her.
Micaiah took it. It trembled very slightly in her grip, so Sothe placed his hand warmly around hers as she, too, cut a narrow line across her palm. Then he took her bleeding hand in his and twined their fingers together.
“We share the same blood now,” he said.
She could feel their blood mixing, warm and sticky between their clasped hands. She tried to smile again, and this time, with Sothe gazing at her so intently, she succeeded. “It doesn’t work like that,” she said gently.
“But perhaps it bought me a few extra days with you?”
Micaiah shook her head. She returned his knife, wiped the dry tears from her face, and rose to her feet, still holding his hand, so he was forced to rise too. “I’ll go find bandages,” she said.
When she returned, cleaned their palms, and wrapped them neatly, she traced over the soft fabric with her fingers. It was as white as the scar beneath it was sure to become. “Thank you,” she murmured.
In reply, Sothe wrapped his arms around her and held her to him. Her cheek rested against his fiercely beating heart; his lips gently brushed the top of her head.
Later, whenever she glimpsed that scar on her hand, she would find Sothe’s scarred hand and clasp it in hers. He would squeeze her fingers and hold her hand longer and longer each time it happened, as if he never would let go.