Day 17: Robin McKinley's Damar series: By Way of a Thousand Years
Author: temaris
Fandom: Robin McKinley's Damar series
Rating: PG-15
Characters: Luthe/ (Aerin)
Summary: Luthe waits.
A/N: Implied Luthe/Aerin
Luthe settles on the stone bench by the Lake of Dreams. He sees further than most, enough to see the flicker of faces, the hint of distant futures reaching deep into the past, their roots footing in the most fragmentary irrelevances. A thousand years and a thousand years pass, and he still knows less every time he breathes out.
He waits without haste. She will come home again, soon, his home, if not exactly hers. She still turns and turns to the stone halls of the ancient city. For all she left it a handful of hundred years since, she still cannot forget, and walks further afield every year. When she wanders he does not ask where she goes. The past is a book they have read together, the future a pattern they sense in the ripples in the breeze.
A handful of hundreds, to become familiar, to lose that ache -- but he does not. He knows, with a honesty pulled out by none other, that he will always and always miss her.
He touches himself almost absently. She is far away, and her thoughts linger still, laughing at him, and loving him, and turning towards him and turning away, torn between the world she cannot leave and the world she must inhabit. Dear Aerin.
Her footstep stumbles as he comes, half a hundred miles distant yet, and he can feel her amusement and cheerful admonishment that he had best be ready for her when she returns.
And he will. He always is.
Fandom: Robin McKinley's Damar series
Rating: PG-15
Characters: Luthe/ (Aerin)
Summary: Luthe waits.
A/N: Implied Luthe/Aerin
Luthe settles on the stone bench by the Lake of Dreams. He sees further than most, enough to see the flicker of faces, the hint of distant futures reaching deep into the past, their roots footing in the most fragmentary irrelevances. A thousand years and a thousand years pass, and he still knows less every time he breathes out.
He waits without haste. She will come home again, soon, his home, if not exactly hers. She still turns and turns to the stone halls of the ancient city. For all she left it a handful of hundred years since, she still cannot forget, and walks further afield every year. When she wanders he does not ask where she goes. The past is a book they have read together, the future a pattern they sense in the ripples in the breeze.
A handful of hundreds, to become familiar, to lose that ache -- but he does not. He knows, with a honesty pulled out by none other, that he will always and always miss her.
He touches himself almost absently. She is far away, and her thoughts linger still, laughing at him, and loving him, and turning towards him and turning away, torn between the world she cannot leave and the world she must inhabit. Dear Aerin.
Her footstep stumbles as he comes, half a hundred miles distant yet, and he can feel her amusement and cheerful admonishment that he had best be ready for her when she returns.
And he will. He always is.